


Take Me Apart (We'll Clean Up the Mess Later)

by sassbandit



Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: AI sexuality, Aftercare, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Artificial Intelligence, BDSM, Breathplay, Caning, Catharsis, Clothed/Naked, Cock & Ball Torture, Coming Untouched, Consensual Non-Consent, Consent Play, Deepthroating, Dom/sub, Domestic Fluff, Edging, Established Kinky Relationship, Evil Corporations, Face-Fucking, Forced Orgasm, HYDRA Roleplay, HYDRA Trash Party, HYDRA Trash Party adjacent, Humiliation, JARVIS is a Good Dungeon Monitor, Kink Negotiation, M/M, Mindfuck, More fluff than you'd expect, Multiple Orgasms, No Safeword, Not Avengers: Age of Ultron (Movie) Compliant, Orgasm Delay/Denial, Past Rape/Non-con, Porn With Plot, Porn with Feelings, Post-Captain America: The Winter Soldier, Punishment, Rape Roleplay, Rough Body Play, Rough Sex, Social Media, Stun Baton, Subspace, Switch Bucky Barnes, Switching, Thinly-veiled references to current events, Top Drop, Torture, stress position, switch steve rogers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-16
Updated: 2018-06-21
Packaged: 2019-05-24 07:01:19
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 41,279
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14949839
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sassbandit/pseuds/sassbandit
Summary: Steve looks perplexed for a minute then asks, "What makes torture nice?"It's a fair enough question. It's not the orgasms; Bucky had plenty of them with HYDRA and there's definitely a difference.He shrugs. "You doing it."Bucky craves the complete submission he experienced as the Asset. With Steve as his handler, and knowing he'll come back safely afterwards, what could possibly go wrong?





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [saff__rnn](https://archiveofourown.org/users/saff__rnn/gifts).



> This is a story about recovery and trust and who you let inside your head.
> 
> Posted as part of Captain America Reverse Big Bang 2018, with art by the amazing [saffrn](https://archiveofourown.org/users/saffrn), who is truly an inspiration. An evil, kinky inspiration. The art appears inline in chapter 5, or you can [view it on Tumblr](https://saffrn.tumblr.com/post/175119925234/oh-gosh-working-with-sassbandit3000-on-take-me).
> 
> Enormous thanks to the hordes of cheerleaders and betas I've roped into supporting me through this. Both I and the story are better for having had you around <3 <3 <3
> 
> \----
> 
> I know there's a lot of kink tags on this fic, so I wanted to note that not everything happens at once and it doesn't necessarily happen the way you'd expect. If you're not sure whether this fic is for you, please try out the first two chapters and see how you feel about where it's going. Most of the heavier stuff happens in later chapters, and none of it happens suddenly.
> 
> Further content notes, including spoilers for the overall plot, are provided in the endnotes. If there is any additional information you want (eg. details of any potential squicks/triggers/DNWs) please feel free to get in touch. Links to various ways to contact me are in my profile, or just drop a comment on the fic.
> 
> One of my beta readers insists I provide the following additional warnings and says that these are by far the worst things that happen in the story: _eating in bed, asymmetric nipple torture_.

It started four and a half days ago with what was turning out to be a phenomenally ill-advised bet over which of them could go the longest without getting off. Phenomenally ill-advised on Steve's part, anyway, because Steve was going to _lose_.

What Bucky has, that Steve doesn't, is the best part of a century's practice at putting the mission ahead of his body's needs. He also has three of Steve's fingers in his ass and Steve's mouth doing a good impression of an industrial vacuum on his cock, but conversely, Steve has three of Bucky's fingers in _his_ ass and a lot more of a gag reflex, so on that count it's pretty much a draw.

Bucky can feel his orgasm as a hot ball settled low in his stomach, sparking and shooting out tendrils of – what were they called, sun things, _solar flares_. Leave them a moment and they subside. With an effort of will, he can hold it in and concentrate on other things, like putting _just_ the right amount of pressure on Steve's prostate, and on how long he can go without breathing with Steve's cock in his throat. Answer: a really fucking long time. He's had practice.

It's Steve who rolls away first, laughing at the wet squelch as Bucky's fingers pull out of his ass. Bucky tries to look smug and gulp a few lungfuls of air at the same time.

"I need to piss," Steve announces, sitting up. His face is red and his hair sticking up in an unruly tangle.

"Sure you do."

"Be right back." 

Steve's legs look a little shaky as he walks to the bathroom. Bucky smirks and sprawls back on the bed, stretching out starfish-style and rolling his neck to get the cricks out of it. He closes his eyes and floats, letting the twisting knot inside him dissipate. He's still hard, but he's been hard just about all day. It's fine. 

He maybe dozes a little, because the next thing he knows he'a feeling the mattress give as Steve crawls up next to him. He settles in draped across Bucky's side, one leg thrown over Bucky's thigh, and wriggles his hands under Bucky's back so his arms are wrapped right around him. Bucky pats him gently on the shoulder with his metal hand.

"Hey," Steve says softly into Bucky's ear. "I want to make you come."

"Tell me something I don't know," Bucky mutters without opening his eyes.

"Hmmm," Steve murmurs thoughtfully. His nose brushes the soft skin at Bucky's hairline. When he speaks again, his voice is pitched low and serious. "I always want to make you come. But this time I want you to come because I ask you to. Because I want it."

Bucky's listening. He's not saying anything, because he won't give Steve the satisfaction, but Steve's got his full attention. His traitorous cock is twitching.

"I think you want that, too. I know you like doing what I say." Bucky keeps his mouth shut, but Steve's not wrong, damn it. He's always been a sucker for Steve that way. "I like it, too," Steve says, his lips tickling at Bucky's ear as he speaks, "when you let go. I want you to not be able to hold back. I want to watch you fall apart."

"Fuck you, Rogers," Bucky manages to grit out between his teeth. Steve's not playing fair.

"Is that a yes?"

No. He doesn't want to let Steve win, but Steve's bringing out a part of him that's aching to do what Steve wants, to _comply_ , and suddenly the bet doesn't seem to matter any more. "Fine. _Yes_."

He expects Steve's hand on his cock and to finally, finally get some release, but Steve just hums a pleased affirmative in Bucky's ear. "Good," he says, his voice still low. "You'll come when I tell you to?"

"Yes," Bucky says, and readies himself. Not too far. Just – how Steve wants him to be.

"I know you will. You've been holding it for so long. How close are you right now?"

"Close." He squeezes his eyes shut, holding back the roiling arousal that surges as he thinks how little Steve would have to say to tip him over the edge.

"You think you could come without me touching you?"

"You are touching me," Bucky says, just to be ornery. Steve's bare skin is pressed against half his body and his lips are brushing ticklishly against Bucky's ear with every word he says.

"Without touching your cock. Maybe just this," Steve says, and extricates one of his hands so he can pinch Bucky's nipple then rub it in hard little circles, the way Bucky likes it.

"Come for me whenever you're ready," Steve says. "You want something else, you just let me know." With that, he nips at Bucky's earlobe then lifts his head to kiss Bucky's mouth, hot and insistent. Bucky turns toward him, opens to him, letting Steve sink his teeth into his lower lip then run his tongue over it. His mouth feels tender already – Steve must know, his own must feel the same. 

His orgasm is building deep inside him and this time he lets it, lets those tendrils of heat flow through his body and tangle together at the base of his cock. He gasps as Steve's fingernails dig into his nipple and says, "Fuck, I'm so close."

"Come for me," Steve says, and Bucky lets go of what he's been holding for four and a half fucking days and nearly blacks out. His body arches up off the bed, and he's faintly aware of Steve's weight pressing against him as he shoots load after load across his own chest and stomach.

"Fuuuuuuhhh," he groans, and _now_ Steve's hand is on Bucky's cock, squeezing out every drop of his release. He doesn't stop when Bucky's done, either, just loosens his grip and shifts to short, soft strokes. He knows it makes Bucky's brain turn to static, too much sensation shooting up every nerve.

"You win," Bucky gasps, when he claws back enough coherence enough to make words.

"Not done yet," Steve says, and slides his palm, wet with Bucky's come, over the head of his cock. Jesus. Bucky thumps his head on the mattress a couple of times because he should have seen this coming – no pun intended. "You all right there, buddy?" Steve asks with a grin, not stopping what he's doing.

"Fine, fine. Go right ahead."

"That's the plan."

Steve's hand is working his cock, varying his strokes so that Bucky teeters right on the edge of overstimulation. Bucky takes a deep breath and lets it out all the way. He lets go of the smartass words that are gathering at the tip of his tongue, lets go of the tension in his body and the last sliver of his mind that's still clinging to the idea that he might've gotten the better of Steve. 

Right now, he'll do what Steve wants. Steve wants another orgasm from him. It's easy to give him what he wants. No reason to hold back. A drizzle of lube, and Steve's fingers slip easily over his skin, coating his cock and balls so there's no resistance. Steve's hand is hot and tight, and Bucky thrusts up into it and comes again, shuddering through it.

"Good," Steve says. "Keep going."

Steve doesn't let up, doesn't worry about Bucky's sensitivity this time. It's a lot to handle. Bucky can handle it. He can handle whatever Steve asks of him. This is easy, well within his body's enhanced capabilities. The oversensitivity jangling his nerves is just a processing glitch. Ignore it. He has a mission, and Steve's hand on his cock is all he needs to complete it. Slick heat and pressure. Relentless. Bucky's balls tighten and he hangs right on the cusp for an interminable time before he offers up his third orgasm.

"How you doing?" Steve asks, his smugness cutting through any note of concern there might've been in his voice. He knows the answer, he just wants Bucky to say it.

 _Ready to –_ Bucky cuts off the first words that come to mind, before they can tumble out of his mouth, and instead hunts inside himself until he can say, "Fine. I'm just fine."

"Yeah," Steve agrees, slowing his hand. He lets go and smears his fingers through the mess on Bucky's belly, rubbing it into his skin. "I think you've got a couple more to go." 

He lowers his hand to tease at Bucky's hole. "Roll over," he says, and manhandles Bucky's body so he's lying on his stomach, one leg bent to the side. Steve reaches under him to draw his cock out so he can access it. 

Another drizzle of lube, and Steve's fingers are back in Bucky's ass, sliding into place like they belong there. The pads of his fingertips massage Bucky's prostate, his other hand moving slickly on Bucky's cock, and Bucky knows there's only one way this is going to go. 

Time stretches like taffy. His ass is Steve's. His leaking cock is Steve's. His pleasure is Steve's. No point in resisting. He doesn't _want_ to resist. 

Steve murmurs quiet words behind him, nothing that needs a direct answer, but Bucky knows Steve doesn't like it when he's too quiet, too still. He makes himself lift his hips, rocking back against Steve's fingers, and lets out a soft moan. Steve responds with approval.

It's easy to do what Steve tells him. Too easy. Steve makes it simple, the way he's touching Bucky, drawing out sensation from him. 

Bucky's cock pulses weakly and leaks fluid – he's not even sure what's orgasm and what's not. He's tingling all over and there's a constant fiery throbbing in his pelvis. He feels great, but... he'd give Steve so much more if he asked for it. If he commanded it, forced it out of him. He'd give him everything. His body, his obedience, his life. All Steve's asking is for him to feel good. 

When Steve says, "One more," Bucky knows he's going for the grand finale. Steve wraps a slippery hand around his cock and pumps it, not letting up with the fingers in Bucky's ass. This one is harder to reach for, but Bucky tightens his muscles, pushes back against Steve's hand, tilts his hips to adjust the angle, and there – _there_ – he finds what he's looking for, tattered shreds he can pull together to make what Steve wants from him. 

His hips spasm and a rough cry catches in his throat. He throws his head back, tenses his body, and his metal arm shifts and locks in place, holding him up as his cock gives a few weak spurts, the pleasure of his orgasm right on the cusp of pain. 

He lets his head fall forward, his hair curtaining his face, and pants. He feels empty, wrung out. Steve's hand is warm and still on his hip, his fingers still buried in Bucky's twitching ass.

"Good job," Steve says. 

It takes Bucky a while to find words, while Steve waits. He pushes some hair out of his mouth and says, "Thanks, asshole."

"You love it."

"Mmph."

Steve strokes Bucky's back, and Bucky shivers. Every bit of him is oversensitive. He lets his arm unlock and collapses face-first into the ruined sheets, not caring about the mess they've made.

"Lift up," Steve says, tugging at the blankets. "Let me tuck you in."

Bucky _could_ pull himself together if he needed to, but why bother? He shifts just enough for Steve wipe up the worst of the mess and sort out the bedding. Steve wrap the blankets around Bucky like a cocoon, then curls up behind him, wrapping an arm around the outside as if to hold it all in place, and Bucky's out like a light in about two seconds flat. 

* * *

Bucky crawls out of bed the next morning feeling like a truck hit him. His eyes are gummed shut and the rest of him is all kinds of crusty. He staggers to the shower and lets the hot water pound on his skin until he's restored to something approximating human.

When he emerges he finds a steaming mug of coffee on the counter. He hadn't even noticed Steve sneaking in to put it there. He downs half the mug while still dripping wet, and pulls on some pants before cradling the mug in both hands and wandering down to the kitchen. Steve's standing at the stove in a pair of Bucky's pajama pants, pouring eggs into a pan.

Bucky crowds up behind him and wraps an arm around his waist, pressing a kiss to the back of his neck and leaving wet drips from his hair all over Steve's faded t-shirt.

"Morning, sleeping beauty," Steve says. 

Bucky chooses not to answer that. It'd only lead to Steve being unbearably smug. A thought occurs to him, and he drops his hand to Steve's crotch, giving him a squeeze through his PJs. Steve's more than half hard, and he immediately gasps and jerks into Bucky's hand. 

"Jesus. Didn't you take care of that?"

"Not yet," Steve says. " _Someone_ passed out."

Bucky rolls his eyes heavenward. "Jesus Christ. What is wrong with you?"

"What? Nothing's wrong with me."

"Give me the spatula." Bucky makes a grab for the utensil, but Steve switches it to his other hand. "Give me the fucking spatula and go stand over there and jerk off." He points to the corner by the breakfast nook.

"I'm making breakfast," Steve says.

"It'll only take you five fucking seconds. Do what you're told. Spatula." He holds out his hand. Steve hands it over, laughing, and goes to stand in the corner. He takes hold of the waistband of his pajama pants, then shoots a concerned look at the window.

"You let me worry about whether the neighbors are trying to see Captain America spanking it," Bucky says. They're not. Dr. Velasquez is on early shift at the hospital this week, Lydia's already taken the boys to school by now, and he can't hear any sounds of human movement from next door. He gives the eggs a quick stir and says, "Well?"

Steve's blushing, which is always great. He pushes his pants down around his thighs. His cock juts out, dark red at the tip, looking angry and disappointed at not getting what it wanted for five whole days. Steve wraps his hand around it and hisses.

Bucky keeps one eye on the eggs and one eye on Steve. Steve looks back at him, his face almost as crimson as his cock and his lower lip caught between his teeth. Bucky fucking loves him.

"Eggs are almost done," he comments. "Better hurry up."

Steve strips his cock efficiently. He doesn't take much longer than the five seconds Bucky predicted before he's coming, gasping Bucky's name. He catches his spunk with the palm of his cupped hand, so it doesn't make a mess. Bucky hands him a paper towel with one hand, and turns off the stove with the other. 

"You'd better wash your hands before you eat," he says sternly. Steve grins back at him.

Sitting at the breakfast table, Bucky puts his feet in Steve's lap and leans back to chew on his toast. Steve eats his eggs with the demeanor of a cat who finally got the canary after five days of stalking it.

"No need to look so smug about it," Bucky grumbles. "I let you win."

"You sure did." Steve smiles, a slow, dirty smile. "How many times was it?"

Bucky shrugs. "A few." He feels himself heating up around the ears a little, thinking how easy he is for Steve, how right it feels to obey him. How close he'd been to going right under, to being... something else. It's not supposed to be like that with Steve, but he wants it, fuck, he really wants it sometimes. 

What's called for here is a distraction. "You know I love it when you torture me," Bucky says, using his sexy voice, then nudges Steve in the balls with his toe to stop him making that face. "What? I'm allowed to say torture if I want. Anyway, it was the nice kind of torture." 

Steve opens his mouth then shuts it again, obviously not wanting to say whatever was on the tip of his tongue. He looks perplexed for a minute, then asks, "What makes torture nice?"

It's a fair enough question. It's not the orgasms; Bucky had plenty of them with HYDRA, and there's definitely a difference.

He shrugs. "You doing it."

Steve sputters. Success. 

Bucky finishes his toast. "You got plans today?" 

"Working from home," Steve says. He doesn't go in to the Tower unless they need him there in person. "You?"

"Gym," Bucky says. He's due to spend some extra time there, make sure everything's running smoothly. Turns out the best way to find the kind of gym you want is to buy one and then make it that way. Takes more time than he would've thought, though.

"Dinner plans?" Steve asks.

Bucky shrugs. "Play it by ear. I can pick something up if you want."

* * *

Steve's been a little distracted from his work for the last few days. There didn't seem to be anything urgent going on, so he's spent more time than usual fooling around with Bucky. Now there's a backlog of reports on his tablet, and he feels a stab of guilt at the long list of emails he needs to respond to.

He starts out replying to as many as he can, and then dives into the background reading. It's _much_ easier to concentrate now than it was yesterday. He catches himself smiling as he opens the first file.

The smile doesn't last long. This... threat. Maria says it's a threat, and Steve doesn't have any reason to doubt her, but he's not sure he can understand what the problem is. A California software company, something to do with social media. Up until now that sort of thing's been handled by the PR team, but apparently this time it might call for actual Avenging. 

Before long he's flipping back and forth between several files, taking notes in longhand on a legal pad. "JARVIS," he says to his tablet, when the page is full of scratched notes and diagrams, "stop me if this is a personal question, but what's the problem with machine learning?"

"Nothing as such, sir," JARVIS replies. "Just as there's nothing essentially wrong with atomic fission or genetic manipulation."

"Ah," Steve says.

"Machine learning has a wide range of applications," JARVIS says, popping up a series of images that hover above Steve's tablet. "To give two examples you're familiar with, it can be used for anything from your Netflix recommendations to the Project Insight targeting algorithm."

Steve winces. "I see." He doesn't know anywhere near enough about this stuff, but if it's anything like Project Insight he'd better learn fast. "Next question," he says, and starts in on the list of other terms he needs to make sense of. 

He's crossed off "microtargeting" and is just starting in on "psychographics" when a message notification from Bucky pops up on his screen. He must have finished his workout. Steve clicks on the message to open it. 

It says, "You know you're my favorite handler," followed by a heart eyes emoji.

Steve covers his face with his hands, feeling the skin of his cheeks burning hot under his palms. Bucky's got a twisted sense of humor. Ever since he figured out how confused and proud and fond and turned on it makes Steve when Bucky calls him that, he'll never let go of it. He says it just to mess with him.

Steve's terrible at responding to compliments, even ones that aren't disturbing. That's what emoji are for. He chooses one with blushing pink cheeks and sends it back.

Bucky replies with a long string of emoji, some of which exist only on their StarkPads, that Steve squints at for a minute before interpreting the last few as, "I love it when you torture me". If "love" is what Bucky means by "eggplant, sweat drops, sweat drops, sweat drops, dizzy face," which seems likely.

Steve has been staring at the screen for a while, wondering what to say, when he sees Bucky's typing again. Maybe he doesn't have to respond. He watches the notification for a while, but it just stays the same. He shakes his head and switches back to the intel report he was reading, and tries to take in what it's saying about fabricated social media content targeting the Avengers.

Bucky's message takes long enough that Steve has actually started to refocus on his work before the notification pops up. 

"I wanted to ask you something. Try not to freak out?"

"Go ahead," Steve types, cautiously. If Bucky's telling him not to freak out, it's probably something that's going to make him want to.

The next message comes quickly, like Bucky had typed it out already and was just waiting to hit send. "Last night and other times, when you make me do things. You know I like it."

"Yes," Steve sends back, not sure where this is going. They've always been like this; it continues to amaze Steve that Bucky still wants to let Steve tell him what to do after what he's been through, but he does.

"I want to go deeper," Bucky's next message says.

Steve frowns at the screen. "Deeper how?"

There's a long pause before he comes back with, "You could be meaner."

Meaner. Steve's not exactly _gentle_ with Bucky. He tried to be, when Bucky first came back, until Bucky told him _I'm not made of fucking glass_ and swore at him and pushed him until he pushed back. They had to repair the drywall after that particular incident. 

"What are you thinking?" he types, and hits send.

"You always make sure I'm having a good time," Bucky writes. "That's not necessary."

Steve frowns, and types, "I like making you feel good. Why wouldn't you want to feel good?" 

Bucky types for a while. It gives Steve time to think. Of course he wants Bucky to have a good time. He's not as forceful as he could be, tries not to give orders like he used to. Even when they were kids, Steve liked to see how much Bucky could take. Now he's more careful. He didn't want Bucky to feel like... well, what Bucky _wants_ to feel like, apparently.

Eventually Bucky's message pops up. "Feels good for me to do what you want. The harder the better. Doesn't matter if it hurts or if I don't come. I still want to do it."

"Ok," Steve types. 

"Ok you'll do it?"

Steve's pretty sure there's nothing Bucky could ask for that he wouldn't do. Still, he feels like he's walked out on a narrow beam and he's teetering over a very deep pit. He thinks for a moment and sends back, "I've got questions."

"I'm shocked," Bucky sends back. 

Of course Steve's got questions. About a thousand of them, but Bucky told him not to freak out, so he's going to think before he asks them. 

Later, Steve takes a break from his work. He stretches, walks around the house a couple of times, does some pushups. He pulls out his phone and texts, "What do you get out of it?"

There's no immediate answer, which means Bucky's probably busy. He sighs, and sits down to his work again. Natasha's face pops up on the screen, along with an obnoxious ringtone that he really should switch out – it's some sort of in-joke of hers and Bucky's, but Steve doesn't get it.

"Hey, Rogers," she says when he answers the video call.

"Hey," he says. "What do you make of all this?" This kind of thing is way more Natasha's field than his, and he's going to need her advice.

She shrugs with one shoulder. "Seems plausible. It'd explain a few things I've been noticing lately."

"On social media?"

"Yes, on social media."

Steve's surprised. Most people peg him as a luddite, but he's got a Twitter and a Facebook page and an Instagram – all managed by the PR team, admittedly – while Natasha has no visible online presence at all.

"I use social media," she says dismissively. "I've got dozens of profiles."

"And yet you didn't like my fan page," Steve says.

"How do you know I didn't? Maybe all your fans are just my sockpuppet accounts."

"Or someone's, anyway."

"Yeah," she says, and they start diving into the intel package. She brings up half a dozen examples of social media posts from the last couple of weeks. "You see these? We've always had people who don't like us, but PR's good at dealing with them. These posts aren't just nastier, they're being targeted at particular users. This one," she says, and enlarges one about herself. Steve winces at the language in the headline. "It's being shown to men who are recently divorced. This one about you is being shown to people who are concerned about increased militarization. We've identified posts about our international anti-HYDRA operations, the Chitauri attack, even about Stark's old sex tapes. They're all being targeted to individual people, to have the worst possible effect."

Natasha brings up a new screen showing how the system develops its psychological profiles. It seems to be learning about people from all the personal information people keep feeding into social media. She's sharp, especially with anything both covert and technological, and her explanation makes far more sense than the reports Steve was trying to read. He fills another two pages with scrawled notes as she talks.

"And we're sure it's just one player making this happen?" Steve asks. It seems incredible that a single tech company could have so much data. It reminds him of the Insight targeting system, but spread across the entire Internet.

Natasha nods. "We've traced the source of most of the articles. They're coming out of a few specific fake news sites, and the targeting is too coordinated to be random."

They're talking through who stands to benefit from a coordinated campaign like this when Bucky's reply to Steve's message pops up, so he doesn't read the text until Natasha hangs up. He pauses, feeling a twinge of trepidation before he opens it.

It says, "Obedience is satisfying. Feels good. That's all."

Steve tries to bring his mind back from the recollection of Fury showing him the Insight helicarriers, and refocus on what he and Bucky were talking about. His mind throws up an image of Bucky on the helicarrier, single-minded, deadly.

He rubs the tight place between his eyebrows and sends back, "So it's a WS thing?" 

Bucky said he didn't want to be the Winter Soldier any more, didn't want to kill, to be a _thing_. So what is it he wants? He says he wants to obey Steve. He'd done that last night, conceded the wager just because Steve had told him to. But he wants more than that. 

"Partly. Mostly a you and me thing." Another text follows it. "Asset headspace maybe. That a problem?"

Steve just sends back, "???" He's going to need more detail.

"Compliant. I'll take anything. Won't push back. Won't speak unless you tell me to."

Steve bites his lip, considering. He imagines Bucky's absolute obedience, the laser focus he'd bring to it, how pliable and ready to please he'd be. He tries not to think too hard about Bucky doing that for anyone else. "So I'm the handler?" Steve asks.

"Always were. Best handler."

His stomach clenches, a flush of heat spreading through him. The idea's terrifying and arousing in equal measure.

"I think I can handle you," he sends back.


	2. Chapter 2

A couple of days later, after an afternoon spent digging around in the gym's accounts and trying to diagnose the weird smell in the locker room, Bucky looks up at the clock and decides it's time to give up for the day. He tosses his plunger and drain snake into the utility closet and waves to a few of the regulars as he leaves. 

On the way home, he picks up a bag of end-of-day pastries at the bakery around the corner and eats a cherry danish as he walks up the street where he and Steve live. Their house is halfway down the block, a nondescript brownstone with a few subtle security upgrades.

Steve's in the room he calls his office, still deep in work. Bucky stands in the doorway, bag of pastries hanging nonchalantly from his metal fingers, waiting until Steve closes the window he's working on and leans back in his chair. Bucky walks up behind him and runs his flesh hand through Steve's hair, pulling on it the way he likes, until some of the stiffness from sitting at his desk has eased out of Steve's shoulders.

"Was that Facebook?" he asks. "I thought you hated it."

Steve grimaces. "It's _actually_ evil," he says. "Or... actually, you know, you don't want to know. Keep doing that." He makes a low humming sound as Bucky scratches his scalp.

"I got pastries," Bucky says. 

"Mmm," Steve says, "Gimme." He picks a pain au chocolat out of the bag and starts shredding it with his fingers, sticking ribbons of pastry in his mouth. Bucky knows he'll strip it down to just the chocolate center, which he'll cram into his mouth all at once.

"I'll put the rest in the kitchen," Bucky says. "You done here?"

Steve sighs. "Just about."

"How much longer?"

"Twenty?" 

Bucky tips Steve's head back so he can kiss him on the forehead. "I'll be upstairs," he says.

He spends a little time tidying up. There's a basket of laundry to put away, a pile of Steve's shoes by the bedroom door. He's hanging towels in the bathroom when he hears Steve on the stairs.

Steve catches him just outside the bathroom door and pulls him into a kiss. "Hey," he says. 

"Hey yourself." 

There's something in Steve's mood as they kiss, something a little sharp and dangerous. A glint in his eye. He pushes Bucky backwards so he's got his back to the wall and crowds him in close. He kisses hard, pushes a thigh between Bucky's so Bucky can feel that Steve's cock is hardening.

Bucky grins, showing his teeth. "Yeah?" he says. He takes Steve's lip between his teeth. Steve hisses and nips back sharply. It's a sweet flash of sensation, making Bucky's nerves light up. He pushes his hips up, pressing against Steve, and pulls at Steve's shirt until it comes untucked from his pants so he can get his hands on some skin.

Steve puts his hands on Bucky's hips, holding him still. He does it casually, but when Bucky tries to grind against him it's clear that he's using more of his strength than it seems. He smirks. Bucky smirks back, then shifts his weight to throw Steve off, maybe flip him against the wall instead. 

He's just playing around, but Steve responds with brutal competence, taking Bucky's momentum as he tries to roll him back against the wall and adding his own strength to it so they keep moving. They come to rest with Steve's forearm up across Bucky's throat, pinning him to the wall, his other hand pressed flat next to Bucky's head. He's got a look on his face that Bucky's seen plenty of times before, usually when Steve's about to pick a fight with someone. 

"You said you wanted me to be meaner," Steve says, his voice steady and controlled. 

Bucky takes in a sharp breath, everything suddenly coming into focus around him, crystalline and brittle. _This is it._ He nods, a quick jerk of his head, feeling the pressure of Steve's arm against his trachea. 

"You'll do what I say?" Steve asks. He's staring intently at Bucky, his gaze flickering across Bucky's face, looking for something. Making sure.

Bucky's sure. He unfists his hands from Steve's shirt and drops his them to his sides – not lax, but ready. He lets go of the resistance in his body, feels his center of balance shift. His mind is focused. Waiting.

Steve recognizes the shift, his eyes flickering as he takes in Bucky's movement, his readiness. Bucky can tell when Steve understands, because he releases the pressure across Bucky's throat. He knows Bucky's not going anywhere. 

With a rush of what feels like relief, Bucky lets himself drop away entirely, lets Steve take over. 

"Get naked," Steve says.

He strips efficiently, dropping his clothes beside him on the floor. The second he's done, Steve grabs him by the back of the neck, digging his fingers in cruelly. He propels him to their bed and shoves him onto it. "Hands and knees," he growls.

He lets himself be manhandled and takes up the position as instructed. Steve's behind him, undressing. His clothes fall to the floor, his belt buckle clattering on the hardwood. Steve takes two steps closer, and – a sharp burst of pain, flaring bright. Steve's pinching his thigh.

Breathe.

The pain rushes to his brain. It's nothing. No damage, just sensation. Easy to accept, easy to deal with. It's Steve – what Steve wants. He wants him to feel it, so he feels it. Welcomes it.

Steve pinches him again, time after time, one thigh and then the other, digging his fingers hard into the flesh, short fingernails burning crescents into his skin. His skin feels hot. He knows it will be reddening, bruising. He starts to feel a wash of endorphins, his body cushioning him, a comfortable layer of protection. Good. He can take as much as Steve demands, but this makes it easier.

"Spread your legs," Steve orders, punctuating the words with a sharp slap.

His mind snaps to attention, focusing on the order, and he hurries to obey. He shuffles his knees apart, as wide as he can.

Another slap for his trouble, this time on the inside of his thigh. Another, hard enough that he needs to brace against it. The blows are rough and unforgiving, meant to hurt, meant to mark him. He'll carry the print of Steve's hand. _Yes,_ he thinks. 

The impact ceases, but he stays braced, expectant. Steve leans against him, the hard length of his cock pressing against bare, smarting skin.

"Don't move."

He holds still, waits, while Steve readies himself.

There's a blunt pressure against his ass. A cold slick of lube. Steve's cock. He expected this, wanted it, is glad of it. His body's trained for it. He knows how to make it good, make it easy. He wills himself to open and lets Steve take him, inch by inch.

Breathe.

His body knows the stretch and pull of being fucked, knows how to respond. He knows how to minimize damage, no matter how unprepared he is. He settles into the rhythm of it, the heat of Steve's hands on his hips, the fullness, the friction. Steve's holding him in place, sliding into him over and over with long, unrushed strokes. 

Steve.

He'll be good for Steve. Do anything for Steve. Always would, always will. Right now Steve wants to use his ass, and that's all that matters. He's available, he's compliant, he's Steve's. 

Steve pace increases, his hips slamming hard with every stroke, until he comes with a low guttural cry, tightening the grip of his hands hard enough to leave deep bruises. Minimal damage – nothing that could compromise function.

Steve relaxes his death-grip, pulls out without any fuss. 

His ass is bare to the cool air, lube slick and wet between his ass-cheeks. Steve comes around in front of him, takes his chin in his hand, and looks into his face.

He looks back. 

There's a worried crease between Steve's eyebrows. Steve's looking for damage, for any sign that he pushed too far. As if he had even come close.

Steve shoves some pillows into a pile and sits against them. "Come here," Steve says, and hauls him up to sit between his legs, pulls him back so he's leaning back against Steve's chest, wraps one arm loosely around his waist.

He sits motionless, staring at the wall opposite them. He's not being asked to do anything, so he does nothing. He does nothing for a long while, only faintly aware of the time passing. 

Steve presses his chin against Bucky's shoulder. Bucky blinks. His arm recalibrates, a wave of movement rippling from shoulder to fingertips. He leans back, rubbing his head against Steve's face.

Steve relaxes a little at Bucky's movement, and Bucky realises how carefully he'd been holding himself. 

"You okay?" Steve asks.

"Uh huh." 

"Is that... is that the headspace you wanted?" 

Bucky nods. It's what he asked for, what he needed – there's a sense of _rightness_ to it. To letting everything else fall away until there's only obedience, only focus. Only trust. No decisions, no worries, no holding back. He knows his head's a mess of conditioning, knows it's not how they would have been before, but now... now it's right. It's Steve, it's him and Steve, and it's perfect.

"What's it feel like?"

"Like... ready to comply," Bucky says. The words come easily. He feels Steve tense minutely – he knows exactly where that came from, how it was used before. Steve might not like it, but it _happened_ , and this is how he is now. "It's just... easy to do what you ask. Don't have to think about it."

"I don't want to hurt you," Steve says. "Not really hurt you," he adds, because obviously there's a difference, to him. He doesn't want to be like HYDRA, he means. Bucky's told him a thousand times that he isn't.

Bucky half-snorts. "You won't." Steve opens his mouth to say something, but Bucky says, "You can't. Even if you did it'd be okay. I can take it." He's living proof of that.

Steve goes quiet for a while, thinking. "You gotta tell me if you need me to stop."

"I'm not gonna do that. I... I can't, once I'm there." 

Steve tenses, balking at the idea. "But –"

Bucky shakes his head. It's pretty clear that Steve is far from happy with that, but Steve has to get this, has to understand how it works. "I _can't_. Once I'm there, you can do anything, and I'm not gonna say anything. I trust you. You gotta let me trust you or I can't go there."

"That's a lot of trust."

He shrugs. "I trust you to take care of me, you trust me to know what I'm doing."

Steve laughs into Bucky's shoulder, sounding a little frayed at the edges. 

"What?" Bucky asks. Whatever joke it is that he doesn't get, it's probably not real funny.

"Sounds like something Peggy said one time. About letting you make your own choices."

"She was a smart lady."

They sit still and quiet for a little longer. Steve presses his lips to the back of Bucky's neck and tightens his arm around Bucky's abdomen, a little half-hug. He drops his hand to Bucky's cock, cradles it for a moment, then gives it a soft stroke.

"You don't have to do that," Bucky says in a low voice.

"Want to."

Bucky's head's not in that place anymore, that _Asset_ place, but he's not exactly going to say no to a handjob if that's what Steve's offering. This is what Steve wants, too. No different. "Mmm, okay," he says, and sprawls more loosely, letting his legs fall apart. Steve's mouth is hot on his neck, his shoulder, that place where they meet that makes Bucky moan softly when Steve sucks on the skin.

Steve takes his time, gentle but firm, and isn't that just Steve all over. It's the handjob equivalent of _Captain America believes in you_. Bucky knows it's as much an act as Mean Steve is. Under it there's still Steve, fair-minded righteous little shit, lonely asshole, best fella a fella could have, and all the rest of him. Bucky can't help but give it up for him.

Afterwards, Bucky stretches lazily as Steve gets up and puts his shorts back on. There's a quietness in his mind, a silence where there used to be a staticky hum he hardly noticed until it was gone. 

Steve goes downstairs to get the bag of pastries, and they eat them in bed.

* * *

"What evidence do we have that this... Zeptr? What kind of name is Zeptr? How do we know it's HYDRA?" Steve asks, looking at the projection on the wall of the meeting room. The tech startup responsible for the microtargeted social media posts they've been investigating looks like any other corporation to him, but Steve's painfully aware that his track record of spotting HYDRA when it's buried inside another organization is less than stellar.

"Not much," Maria says. She brings up a dossier on the tech company. "There's a series of shell companies and a whole mess of investors, but when we look into their boards and what other companies they've been with we start to see a few familiar patterns."

"Isn't that –" Steve points at one of the logos on the screen. It looks familiar from one of their recent operations. He remembers seeing it all over a lab they raided when they were playing HYDRA whack-a-mole last year. 

"A HYDRA front. Biotech." She pulls a face. Whenever HYDRA does medical experimentation it tends to be particularly nasty. "We cleared out their labs about 18 months ago, but we were never quite sure how much of the executive team was in on it. Looks like this guy cashed out before we got there and moved on to new ventures." She points to one of the faces on the screen, a regular-looking fair-haired guy in an expensive suit. "He's COO of Zeptr now."

"It gets better," Tony adds, grabbing the projector remote and zooming in on one of the investors. "This one's linked to Hammer Industries, but get this: I don't think they even realize what they're doing. They're a minor stakeholder, they've got investments in a bunch of companies like this. Hammer likes to stick his fingers in things he doesn't understand. I'm pretty sure he invested in a HYDRA operation by accident."

Steve's getting a headache. "And this is relevant because..."

"Because Hammer's hilariously incompetent and we love schadenfreude. Okay, _I_ love schadenfreude, I don't know about you."

"I've been known to appreciate it," Steve says dryly. "So, now we know who's behind this, what's the plan?"

The plan turns out to be Maria going in undercover as a data scientist, with Natasha and JARVIS in her ear to coach her. "I'd do it myself," Natasha says, sitting back in her chair and twirling a stylus in her fingers, "but since the SHIELD data dump I'm pretty sure every single one of their engineering team knows what I look like, if they don't actually have me as their desktop wallpaper."

If they want to take Zeptr down, they'll need to understand the technology that lets them profile people and target them so precisely. The briefing lasts another hour, but there's not much for Steve to contribute. He's just going to have to sit back and wait until they've got enough intel to set up a raid.

"Remind me why I'm in these meetings," he says to Maria once everyone else has filed out of the room.

"For your tactical input," she says, "and because you get tetchy if you don't know everything that's going on."

"Right." Steve laughs ruefully. The problem is that he's tetchy when he doesn't know everything, but he's also tetchy when he has to sit in endless briefings. Steve's starting to think maybe he's just naturally tetchy. Cantankerous, even. "So," he says to change the topic, "ready to work for HYDRA again?"

Maria grimaces. "At least this time I know what I'm signing up for."

"You think the whole company is HYDRA?"

Maria gives it a few seconds' thought. "Probably not. They're recruiting through the normal industry channels. Chances are they've got a lot of engineering grads signing up straight out of school thinking they've landed a sweet tech job with a 401k and stock options."

"They're in for a nasty surprise," Steve says. He knows exactly what that's like. Most of the HYDRA cells they've taken out have been full of actual HYDRA agents, but the ones with civilians are Steve's least favorite, not least because Steve empathizes with them, caught up in something without knowing.

"Well, hopefully this is the last one," Maria says. "If there's any more HYDRA heads taking the place of the last few we've cut off, they're so far underground they won't be coming out for a good long time. We're close to done here."

"Can't be close enough for me." 

Done with HYDRA. What a thought – to finally be out from under the threat of them, to finish the war he's been fighting for the best part of a century, that he'd _died_ for. To know he could trust the agencies he has to work with. For Bucky not to be looking over his shoulder, waiting for HYDRA to come for him again.

Maria nods sympathetically. "Just give me a few weeks, Steve. Then we can go kick their asses."

She's not wrong about him being tetchy, Steve thinks as he heads to the target range. The whole thing's got him on edge, not really knowing what they're up against yet. He's itching to _do_ something, but for now he'll have to settle for shooting paper targets and trying not to worry about Maria infiltrating a HYDRA front on her own. She's more than capable, he reminds himself. She was in Fury's inner circle, knew HYDRA was inside SHIELD, while Steve was still blithely working with them. For them.

His next three rounds hit center target. He pushes in a new clip with a satisfied grunt. Firearms might not be his favorite thing, but there's definitely something therapeutic about the practice.

He pushes his worries about the Zeptr operation aside before he leaves the Tower. Weaving through the afternoon traffic back across the Brooklyn Bridge and through the streets to his own home – his and Bucky's home, more comfortable than they ever imagined when they were young – shakes the last shreds of irritability out of him. 

It's the first Friday of the month, which means he and Bucky have plans to go out and enjoy themselves. A couple of local galleries are doing special events and the food trucks are out in force. They run into some neighbors while lining up for tacos and wind up following them to an open mic night, where if anyone recognizes them, nobody says anything. It's not bad, but when Steve finishes his beer he raises an eyebrow at Bucky, who raises one back, and they make their excuses and head home.

"Mm," Bucky says, collapsing on the sofa and dragging Steve down with him. "C'mere."

Bucky's relaxed and easy, settled in his skin. He seems more comfortable than he has in a while. Steve's been watching, keeping an eye out for any signs of a thousand-yard stare, but if anything, Bucky's been more present, not less, since Steve got rough with him. 

Asset headspace, he said. Even though Steve knew to expect it, he was discomfited at first by how readily Bucky dropped into silent obedience. He remembered when Bucky first came in, how were poised to respond if Bucky's blank confusion flipped over into mindless violence. It never did. He's better now – _much_ better, apparently. Enough that Steve probably doesn't need to feel unsettled by how turned on he was by Bucky's submission.

Steve slides a hand under Bucky's hoodie and kisses him, teasing his tongue along Bucky's lower lip. Bucky smiles and scratches his metal hand through Steve's hair. "This is nice," Bucky says.

"Yeah. Ow," Steve adds, as a hair catches in the plates. 

"Sorry." Bucky switches hands, sooths Steve's sore scalp with his flesh hand, and uses the other to cup Steve's ass and give it a squeeze. "Better?"

"Much." He wiggles and settles himself more comfortably against Bucky's chest, tucking his nose inside Bucky's hoodie and chewing gently at his collarbone through his t-shirt.

"You're cuddly tonight," Bucky says. Steve hums his assent, and snuggles a little more against Bucky's warm chest. Bucky sounds pleased, and Steve's quietly relieved. He's feeling mellow and comfortable, happy just to be with his best guy and make out on the sofa with him. 

Bucky's mouth tastes like al pastor tacos and the raspberry wheat beer he tried at the bar. Steve's not sure why that's so comforting, but it is. An ordinary night, good food, good company. He's not sure about the art. Not to his taste, he thinks, but the artists were clearly talented and the fact that it's just down the street and that they can walk home to this... a solid roof over their heads, their over-engineered and overstuffed sofa, Bucky here with him. He's a lucky guy.

He's melted against Bucky, draped across him like a blanket, while Bucky's fingers work in his hair and Bucky's mouth explores around his ear and his jaw. He turns his head so his lips meet Bucky's, and Bucky's mouth is familiar, so familiar. Steve can remember the first time they made out like this, lifetimes ago. It never gets old.

A little while later, Steve shifts and adjusts his jeans to make room for his hardening cock, then goes right back to kissing. Bucky lets out a little "heh" of laughter and kisses him deeper. His hand's still lazily resting on Steve's ass, so he slides it down a little and uses it to pull Steve closer.

Steve makes a little noise at that, a soft sound deep in his throat, and he knows Bucky'll know what he means by it. He drops his head and presses his cock against Bucky's hip.

"Something you want?" Bucky asks, teasing.

"Mmm, maybe," Steve say, a small smile hidden against Bucky's shoulder. He's pretty sure Bucky's got a good idea what he wants.

"Okay then. Why don't you go grab a toy to play with?"

There's a plastic tub in the bottom of their closet. Steve rummages through it, putting aside the paddles and clamps and restraints for Bucky to use on him some other time, and picks out a sinuously curved plug. He grabs the lube from the bedside drawer and a hand towel from the bathroom and is about to head back down to the living room when he pauses, puts everything down, and takes off all his clothes.

When he returns, he finds Bucky sitting with his arms spread out across the back of the sofa, legs spread. Bucky smirks as Steve walks toward him, taking in his nakedness. "Practical," he says.

"You know me."

"Whatcha got?" He takes the plug from Steve's hand. "Nice choice," he says. "You want me to do the honors?"

"Please," Steve says. There's a flutter of excitement in the pit of his stomach. This is nothing new for them, but still, every time, he feels it.

"Okay, up over the arm of the sofa," Bucky says, patting the cushion beside him. Steve positions himself, lifting his ass, letting his head fall down on the other side.

"Your ass is a work of art," Bucky comments, running his hands over it.

Steve grimaces, since Bucky can't see his face. "So they tell me."

Bucky's hand smacks down on Steve's ass cheek, hard enough to sting. "None of that," he says, as Steve stifles a yelp. "You need me to remind you how great your ass is?" He rubs his hand over the reddened skin, and Steve feels his face turning red to match. Every time, every compliment, from Bucky or anyone else, feels like it's mocking him. He didn't believe Bucky when Bucky said he loved Steve's body before the war, small and weedy as it was. He still can't get his head around it now. But Bucky's not gonna let him get away with putting himself down. 

Steve doesn't mind. There's plenty of worse things than the flat of Bucky's hand on his ass, getting him all warm and tingly. He rocks back a little into Bucky's touch, so Bucky brings his hand down on the other cheek. "Beautiful," Bucky says, adding a few more strikes on either side. Steve bites his lip and squirms. He's not sure it's an _effective_ way for Bucky to try and train him out of making self-deprecating comments, but he's not going to say that.

"Thank you," he says instead.

"Better." Bucky gives Steve's ass another squeeze, fingers digging into the tender flesh, then snaps open the lube and traces a couple of wet fingers between Steve's cheeks, teasing his hole.

The plug slides in with practiced familiarity, its sinuous form nestling right where it makes Steve catch his breath when he moves. Bucky pushes against the base of it, and Steve rocks back a few times, enjoying it. Bucky takes his hand away, and Steve pushes against nothing, coming up off the arm of the sofa.

"Back here," Bucky says, sitting down and patting his lap. "We're not done making out yet."

Steve straddles Bucky's thighs and goes back to kissing him. It seems like Bucky just wants to take it slow and easy. Steve's naked, with a plug in his ass, and Bucky's hands are on his asscheeks, mostly just holding him there, but occasionally pressing against the base of the plug and... yeah, okay, so they're kissing. That's what they're doing. 

Steve lets himself fall into it, lets Bucky take the lead and set the pace. His cock's pressed between them, rubbing against the front of Bucky's hoodie if he shifts around, but nobody's in a rush. He lets his arousal build gradually, getting lost in the sensations of Bucky's mouth, Bucky's hands, of his own bare skin against Bucky's clothes. He doesn't know how long they've been at it when he realizes, through a dreamy haze, that he's been thrusting rhythmically against Bucky for some time.

"'S so good," he says breathily.

Bucky presses his hand against the base of the plug, pushing it up into him. Pleasure sparks deep inside Steve as he clenches around it and suddenly he's close, so close...

"Bucky," he says, a desperate note in his voice.

Bucky digs his fingers into Steve's hips, holding him still. "Don't come on my hoodie," he says. 

"Where do you want me to come?" Steve pants, and takes a few shallow breaths until he's back from the edge. Trust Bucky to be thinking about laundry right now.

Bucky rolls his eyes theatrically. "You're making a big assumption there, pal," he says.

"I'm gonna mess up your sweatshirt anyway," Steve says. He knows his cock's leaking, probably leaving damp spots. It'll only get worse. Bucky's gonna have to wash the hoodie regardless.

Bucky reaches across and grabs the hand towel Steve brought down. He lifts Steve's body away from him and spreads it out over his stomach. "There. You can mess that up."

The fabric of the towel feels rough against Steve's skin. He rubs against it experimentally and whimpers. "There you go," Bucky says, and goes back to kissing him while he presses on the base of the plug.

Steve rocks against it, caught between Bucky's hands and the towel. His arousal builds quickly, and before long Steve says, "Bucky," again – a warning, a plea.

Bucky holds him steady and says, "Take your time." Steve breathes hard, then forces himself to slow down. He makes himself roll his hips with deliberate care, feeling the damp patch on the towel where he's been steadily leaking, his ass clenching on the plug.

"Bucky, please..."

"Okay, turn around," Bucky says, and helps Steve move so he's sitting on Bucky's lap facing outward. Bucky's positioned him so his plugged ass is pressed against one thigh, the towel folded across it, and he pulls Steve back to lean against his chest. Steve's cock is standing up in front of him with nothing to rub against, the slick of precome cooling in the open air.

Bucky puts his arm around Steve and takes Steve's nipple between his fingers, pinching and rolling it as Steve rocks on the plug. "That good?" Bucky asks.

"Yeah," Steve says, and Bucky switches to the other nipple. He's very into symmetry. It's comforting how predictable he is. Steve knows how this works, knows Bucky will pay exactly equal attention to each side, just like he knows Bucky's just going to work him up and keep him on the edge for as long as he feels like it.

"Buck," he whines after a while, his dick straining at the air, desperate for some attention.

"Harder?" Bucky asks, and it's not what Steve was thinking but sure, that's good too. Steve's rocking erratically, trying to get everything he can from the plug pressed against his prostate, his cock dripping. Bucky lets go of his nipple and Steve almost cries with frustration. Then Bucky's fingertip touches his cock, just one fingertip, gently swiping up precome and spreading it around the head. Steve's cock jerks and Bucky loses contact for a moment, then comes back with two fingertips, running them up the underside of Steve's cock, around the head and back again.

"Please," he moans.

Bucky finally grabs the lube, squirts it into his hand and wraps his slick fingers around Steve's cock. "Take your time," he says again, emphasizing each word. 

Steve tries to go slow, tries to thrust into Bucky's hand as gradually as he can. Tries to calm his breathing. Bucky didn't say not to come, he just said to take it slow, and Steve can do that. He tries to move like he's in slow motion, every fraction of an inch controlled. It's so frustrating he could almost cry. He lets out a whining, "Please, please." 

"You'll get there," Bucky says, and Steve suddenly flashes back to a thousand years ago, the two of them like this, on the narrow ticking-covered mattress in their tenement apartment, the air hot and heavy around them, and Bucky's hand on him saying, "Take your time, you'll get there," making him go slow. Steve had been flushed and breathing hard and so, so desperate, and Bucky had held him and stroked him so slowly until –

Steve comes with a groan all over himself and Bucky's hand. He leans back, and Bucky wipes his hand off then presses it flat against Steve's abdomen, holding him in place. 

"Happy?" Bucky asks.

"Yeah," Steve says with a laugh. It's a good word for it.

* * *

"Bucky. _Bucky._ "

He struggles awake, flailing against the covers and pushing them away. He's overheated and freezing cold at the same time. Tendrils of dream-fear are clawing at him, trying to drag him back into the nightmare. He sits up, flailing, then manages to swing his feet over the side of the bed and onto the floor. It's cool against his soles. His head clears a little.

"You okay?" Steve. Steve's propped up on one elbow, looking concerned.

"Mm." He needs to piss. He gets up, shaking off a little more of the nightmare as he stands.

The bathroom light is blindingly bright. He doesn't look in the mirror.

When he's done, he descends silently to the kitchen for a glass of water and drinks it staring at the lights on the front of the dishwasher. Steve joins him, wordlessly filling his own glass from the tap. He leans against the counter beside him, close but not touching.

"Was it the usual?" Steve asks. He means the most common nightmare, the one that kept Bucky awake for months when he first came in, until he was a wreck. Every time he closed his eyes he saw another one of his missions, his victims. A bullet hole between the eyes. A dead body lying in a pool of blood. A neck bent at an unnatural angle. Eyes glassy, staring. 

It wasn't that one. It was one of the others, still familiar. More familiar lately, perhaps, as the others had been easing off.

He shakes his head. "It was another one. Trying to escape."

"That doesn't sound so bad," Steve says, in a leaden attempt at humor.

"Wouldn't be so bad if it ever worked. I'd get away and turn a corner and I'd be back there again."

_There._ A cell, bare, cold. That's where they broke him, and where they kept him when he wasn't in cryo. Where they'd come to have their fun with him when he was done with missions. The files say he escaped a couple of times, but he doesn't remember it. It's a permanent blank. All he knows is that they found him and brought him back.

"Like a record skipping," Bucky says. "Same thing, over and over again."

"Yeah," Steve says.

Maintenance, conditioning, cryo, new mission. Exfiltration, downtime, waiting. The taste of blood and semen and piss. Cold concrete floors. Try to escape, break free of the cell, see daylight... get pulled back. Start again. In his dreams, there's no end to it, and he remembers it all. Over and over again, forever.

Bucky shivers. "It's just like that. Can't break out of it."

"Was it... what we did the other day?" Steve asks, cautiously.

"No," Bucky says, but he thinks, _maybe._ He can't tell what triggers the nightmares, other than his own scrambled brain.

Steve catches the uncertainty. "I'm sorry," he says. "We won't do it again."

"No! That's... It was fine. Good. We should do it again. It was good."

"But it gave you nightmares."

Bucky laughs hollowly. "Don't know if you've noticed but I always have nightmares. This one was... I was trying to get out of it, and I couldn't. Over and over, kept trying to get away, and then I'd be back there in a cell."

"Okay," Steve says calmly. God knows he's had practice being calm in the face of this bullshit.

"What we did was _good_ ," Bucky says, trying to explain. "We went there and I came back. _I came back_ and you were there and it was... normal. In the dream, I couldn't..." He realizes he's shaking, and puts his glass down carefully before he crushes it.

"You're here now," Steve says.

"I know." It comes out sounding frustrated. He is frustrated.

"Can I hold you?" Steve asks. Bucky nods, and lets Steve tuck his arms around him and hold him close. Bucky presses his face into Steve's shoulder, breathes in his warm sleepy smell. He wriggles his bare toes against the hardwood floor. It helps. It's about the furthest thing he can imagine from cold concrete.

"Would it help to do it again?" Steve asks, hesitantly.

To let go, and then pull himself back together, and have Steve there. "Yeah," he says, and thinks a moment before he adds, "even..."

"Hmm?"

"Even more." The words are crowded up behind his tongue; they come out in awkward chunks. "Maybe we could. Make it more like." He swallows. "Like it was. And then I could come back." 

"Okay," Steve says, rubbing his back. "And that'll stop the nightmares?"

Bucky laughs hollowly. "Not sure anything'll do that. But it'll make it easier to remember they're not true any more."

Steve's hand is steady and warm on his back. "Can you tell me what you need?" he asks.

"Let me get back to you on that," Bucky says into Steve's shoulder.

"Take as long as you need." 

Steve keeps holding him, but eventually he shivers, and says, "You want to come back to bed?" 

Bucky shrugs and disengages from Steve's hug. "I'm gonna read," he says. "You should get some more sleep."

There's one comfy armchair that's _his_ , next to the bookshelves they installed. He curls up in it with a novel, one of last year's Hugo winners, and starts reading. It's hard to take in the words. He puts it down after a few pages and reaches for his notebook and a pencil instead.

* * *

Three days later – three nights Bucky wakes up in terror, three mornings Steve finds him curled in his armchair looking tired and strung out and holding his battered notebook tight in one hand and a pencil in the other – Steve goes in to the Tower for yet another meeting. He comes home to find Bucky absent, most likely at the gym, and an envelope on the kitchen counter with his name on it in Bucky's chicken-scratch scrawl.

He goes to his own armchair, the one across from Bucky's, and sits down. He opens the envelope carefully, draws out the wad of folded paper, carefully cut from Bucky's notebook, and unfolds it. 

_Dear Steve,_

_You asked me what I needed. I'm trying to figure that out. I don't know if you'll go for it or if you'll think I'm ~~crazy~~ crazier than usual but please just read it and see what you think. _

_Seems funny to be writing you and not trying to cover up all the awfulness. When I wrote you from the front I couldn't bear for you to know what I'd seen or the things I'd done. I wanted to protect you. I didn't think I'd have to tell you all about this either, but if we're gonna do this thing you have to know. I'm sorry._

_I told you I want it to be like it was with them. So first things first, you'll need a cell..._

Steve reads to the end, then goes back to the beginning and reads it again. The words are dense and relentless, unflinching in their detail. Some pages have diagrams, with measurements and notations. It's a heartbreaking appendix to the Kiev files, laying out in grisly technicolor what Steve had only guessed from euphemistic phrases translated from the Russian, and from things Bucky had hinted at. 

There's a lump in Steve's throat and his eyes are prickling, but he swipes at them and doesn't let the tears come. If this is what Bucky needs, then of course Steve will do it.

He squeezes his eyes tight and opens them again, then pulls his phone out of his pocket. "JARVIS," he says. 

"Yes, sir?"

"I'm going to show you a letter Bucky wrote. It's... personal. He mentions you in it and, uh, we're going to need your help."

JARVIS's interface switches to camera mode. Steve flattens out the pages, one at a time, and holds his phone over them for a few seconds, letting JARVIS take them in.

JARVIS says nothing until the end, and then says, "Very comprehensive, sir." Steve can see Bucky's words turning to blue text on the screen, his diagrams being converted to digital models. "I am cross-referencing with the Winter Soldier files and with Mr. Barnes's medical data and psychological profile."

"Can you... is this something you can do?" Steve asks. For all he knows, helping Steve pretend to be HYDRA to torture Bucky, even at his own request, might be beyond the bounds of JARVIS's programming. It's certainly not like anything they've ever asked him for before.

"It's well within my capabilities," JARVIS says, "and I'll also add that I'd be delighted to assist you and Mr. Barnes in any way possible. You can, of course, rely on my absolute discretion."

"Thanks," Steve says, feeling a weight lift off his shoulders. He's not going to have to do it alone. "Where do we start?"


	3. Chapter 3

JARVIS identifies a suitable disused warehouse owned by Stark Industries, in a light industrial part of Brooklyn not too far from where they live. Steve rides his bike down there and spends a day receiving deliveries, everything he'll need to set the place up how it needs to be. He starts with a padded case full of little electronic devices. He climbs a stepladder to plant them in the angles between the wall and the ceiling, both in the main warehouse and in the smaller side-rooms, in accordance with the layout diagram JARVIS provided.

"How's that?" he asks, his voice echoing in the empty space.

"Calibrating now," JARVIS replies from the nearest speaker, then makes a series of distorted sounds that soon resolve into "Moonlight Serenade" coming from everywhere at once. If Steve listens carefully, he can hear the tiny whir of motors underneath the music as JARVIS's cameras swivel. 

"Sounds good," he says, glad to have JARVIS all around him, keeping him company. "What's next?"

He spends the afternoon stripping one of the smaller rooms down to bare concrete and cinder block, and upgrading security on the entrances. The dumpster in the alleyway fills up fast. 

He can't be there every day, but things are quiet on the Avenging front while Maria's undercover on the West Coast. Apart from reading her reports and routine training with the rest of the team, his time is flexible. He lets Bucky know that JARVIS is on board and that they've started setting everything up, but Bucky shakes his head firmly when Steve tries to tell him about the warehouse. "No spoilers," he says with a tight smile. "I don't need to know." After that, when Steve goes to the warehouse, he just says it like that, nonchalantly: "I'm going to the warehouse."

Bucky's a little antsy through it all, a nervous energy thrumming under his skin. He spends most of his days at the gym. In the evenings, when they fuck, Steve sometimes sees a glimpse of that blank, distant look on his face before he quickly snaps back to being present. 

"Are you okay?" Steve asks, one time.

"Yes, I'm good, I'm fine, I fucking love you," Bucky says, sinking down onto Steve's cock. 

The last delivery to arrive is a small package from an online store that mostly sells band t-shirts and outfits that look to Steve like Halloween costumes. Steve holds it in his hands for a long moment before taking it into the room they've designated as his changing area and sitting down on the bench. He cuts the package open and lets the contents fall out: two embroidered cloth patches, red and black. 

Bucky said he needed it to be real, and this is part of the uniform. Best to think of it as an undercover op, like Maria in her slouchy hoodie and tech company logo t-shirt. He's not the only one dressing up as HYDRA even this week, he tells himself. Anyway, they sell these to teenagers as a _fashion accessory_. They're not illegal. 

A thought suddenly strikes him. He picks up the discarded envelope and looks at the address sticker on the front of it. A fake name. A barcode. "JARVIS," he says, "can these purchases be tracked?"

"I would have anonymized them regardless, sir," JARVIS replies, "but it seemed especially pertinent given our current concerns about online profiling. All purchases related to this project are completely untraceable."

Steve lets out a sigh of relief. He wouldn't want to have to explain this to anyone, but the idea of anyone – Zeptr, _HYDRA_ – knowing what they're doing and using it to their own ends turns his stomach.

He takes out his sewing kit and the uniform he'd previously washed and stowed in a locker. Apart from the insignia, it's the same as the STRIKE uniforms his team wore. The same as the uniforms Rumlow and the rest were wearing on the overpass, when Bucky was unmasked and Steve's world fell apart. 

He breaks the thread with his teeth, the way his ma used to, and pushes it through the eye of the needle. He sews the badges to the sleeves with tiny, precise stitches. As he does it, he imagines himself wearing this uniform, imagines himself standing over Bucky, imagines what they'll do. Best to get it clear in his head.

* * *

"You okay, man?" Mika asks. Bucky puts down his kettlebells and turns to where Mika's sitting on one of the benches, sipping a smoothie. Bucky's brow creases. "It's just, you've been in here constantly this week. Like, I don't mind! It's your gym! Just, you know, trying to," they wave a hand airily, "be supportive or whatever."

"Thanks," Bucky says, trying to smile because he really does appreciate it. "I'm fine." 

He is, but he likes that Mika asked. His gym's a safe place, somewhere he can come and get out of his head and into his body. And it's the only place outside of home and Avengers Tower where he doesn't have to hide his arm. He's wearing a tank top because it tends to overheat if he covers it up when he's exercising. Any asshole who comments on it finds that their membership dues are refunded and their swipe card stops working. Same happens if anyone's a douche to Mika or any of the other staff or regulars. Result: asshole-free gym, just the way Bucky likes it. 

"You wanna spot me?" Mika asks, shooting a look at the front desk where one of the trainers is between sessions, kicking back with her feet up, playing with her phone. Mika can be back there in a minute if anyone comes in.

"Sure," Bucky says, and they start to rack up the bench press bar, each of them lifting weight plates in tandem. Mika's just finishing set number three when Bucky's phone rings – Steve's ringtone, an actual call, not a text.

"Shit, sorry, I gotta take this," he says, and Mika racks the bar. Bucky steps away and answers the call. "What's up?"

"Hi, Buck," Steve says. He sounds like he's trying to be casual, but there's a tense undertone to his voice. "How's things?"

"I'm good," Bucky replies cautiously, turning away and hunching into his phone. "What's up?"

"Well," Steve says, and takes an audible breath. "I wanted to let you know that I'm finished down at the warehouse, and I was wondering if you wanted to –"

"Yes."

"– come down and... yes?"

Bucky looks over his shoulder and sees Mika's moved on to doing pullups. 

"Yes, let's do it. If that's what you were asking. Or... shit, sorry, did you mean –"

"No, no, that's good. If you want to. It's ready. Now?"

Bucky looks at the clock on the wall. The front desk's covered. He's just been killing time here. He can change and be out of here in five minutes. Less. "Yeah," he says, quickly, before something comes up to stop him. "Send me the address."

JARVIS sends directions to Bucky's phone. The warehouse is on a back street near the Gowanus Canal and it has a faded sign with the name of a trucking company on the front. When Bucky arrives, he stands across the street and takes in the frontage, the cars parked along the street, the three large roll-up doors and the one small human-sized one. There are surveillance cameras covering all the entrances and a numeric keypad by the smaller door.

He's probably not supposed to break into the place, though of course he could. He pulls out his phone and says, "JARVIS?" His mouth is dry. He swallows.

"Hello, Mr. Barnes," JARVIS says. "Please enter when you are ready."

Bucky crosses the road. As he approaches the door, a flat surface above the keypad lights up. He realizes it wants his biometrics, not a code; the door opens to his handprint.

"Is Steve here?" he asks as he steps into the echoing space of the warehouse, quickly looking around.

"Not at present," JARVIS replies. "Everything you'll need is in the room to your right." 

There are two lockers, one with the name "James Barnes" on it, and another bearing the designation "Asset." He removes his clothes and places them in the first locker, then opens the second.

Half an hour later, his body and his mind prepared, he enters the cell. The concrete floor is gritty and a little oily under his feet. It slopes away to a drain hole in one corner.

He clips the metal cuffs around his wrists. The first, on his flesh arm, is like a particularly chunky industrial bracelet. The second, around his metal arm, looks the same but is attached to a strong chain with its other end bolted to the floor.

He kneels and places his hands behind his back, wrists close together. He closes his eyes for a long moment, then opens them again.

JARVIS's voice comes from the ceiling. "Asset, status report?"

"Ready to comply," he says. His voice is muffled by the mask, echoing dully in his own ears.

A mechanical _thunk_ sounds as the door locks. The cuffs magnetize, pulling his wrists together. The Asset doesn't respond. 

* * *

"Mr. Barnes is ready for you in the cell," JARVIS says. "He has been waiting for approximately ten minutes. Everything you need is in the locker."

"Thanks, JARVIS." Steve's stomach is fluttering with anticipatory nerves. He knows everything's in the locker – he put it there himself – but he's glad JARVIS is there to walk him through it.

He takes out the modified STRIKE uniform and the other items he prepared and starts to strip down. His skin feels tight, his body coiled and ready like he's preparing for a mission or a fight. "How's he doing?" he asks.

"His vital signs are normal. He appears calm."

Steve nods and pulls on the dark tac pants, pressing the heel of his hand to his dick as he zips them up. It's not time for that yet. He takes out the shirt with the HYDRA patches, followed by a protective vest. Gloves. Boots. No, wait. Boots first, then gloves. He reminds himself to stay cool and thinks through what's going to happen, visualizing it as best he can, repeating his opening lines under his breath. He already practiced them in the bathroom mirror, after he got off the phone with Bucky, until he could meet his own eyes as he said them.

He picks up the visored helmet.

"Don't forget the earpiece, sir," JARVIS says.

Right. He takes it from its plastic case and inserts it, making sure it's settled firmly, then puts the helmet on over it.

"Run me through the protocols again."

JARVIS's voice comes direct into his ear this time. "The timer will start when you enter the cell. I'll notify you of the time every fifteen minutes. I'll also notify you if there is a significant change in Mr. Barnes's vitals. You can tap on your earpiece at any time to get the same information. I have control over all electronic and electrical mechanisms within the cell, with the exception of Mr. Barnes's arm. If either of you are at risk of serious harm, I am authorized to call for whatever form of emergency backup I deem most suitable. For what it's worth, sir, I consider the likelihood of that to be remote."

The last item Steve needs is hanging on a hook inside the locker. He takes the baton from its place and weighs it in his hand, then touches the controls. There's nothing other than a small red light to show it's active. It seems like there should be a hum or a crackle from it. He sets it low and holds down the trigger as he touches it to his other hand, jerking at the bite. He's tested this too, knows how it feels on higher settings, as high as he could stand to use on himself.

He repeats his lines again, adjusts himself in his pants, sets his shoulders. He's ready.

The door unlocks to his handprint and swings open. 

Bucky – the Asset – is kneeling in the center of the floor, his bare chest looking pasty in the greenish light. His lower face is muzzled by the mask, his eyes gazing out from above it, flicking quickly to Steve as he enters the room and then back to neutral, blank.

"Mission's postponed. What the fuck are we supposed to do with you in the meantime?" Steve says as the door thuds shut behind him. He walks around the Asset, pacing slowly, observing him from all angles. He pauses behind him, taking in the all-too-familiar lines of Bucky's shoulders, the taut muscles and soft sweep of hair over the nape of his neck. Not Bucky, _the Asset_ , he reminds himself, and plants his foot between the Asset's shoulder blades, somewhere between a kick and a shove, pushing him forward.

The Asset catches himself before he can hit the floor. He leans at an awkward angle, his center of balance off, but he holds himself where Steve pushed him rather than getting back to an upright position. A prod from Steve's stun baton, set to medium intensity, knocks him sideways onto the bare concrete.

"Well, that's fucking useless," Steve says. "Get up." He waits for the Asset to pull himself back up to his knees. "If I want you on the floor I'll say so."

As if he's just killing time, Steve takes another walk around the cell, then pokes the Asset in the upper arm with the tip of the baton. The Asset spasms, but holds himself upright through force of will. 

Steve moves to the other side and hits him in the ribs. The Asset folds over with a grunt then straightens up, his hair hanging in his face. His chest rises and falls as he gets himself back under control.

"Look at me," Steve says, and the Asset's eyes snap to Steve's face, with a twitch of his head that flips the hair out of his eyes. Steve knows he's invisible through the tinted visor of his helmet; the Asset can't see him, but he can assess how the Asset – Bucky – is holding up. His gaze is steady, neutral, his eyes pale above the dark line where his mask cuts his face in half. He doesn't seem to be breathing hard or suffering distress. JARVIS would say something if he was.

Steve rests the tip of his baton on the Asset's sternum, then slides it over to his nipple. He lets it sit there for a moment, the Asset's chest rising and falling under it, then depresses the trigger and holds it in place. The Asset convulses, the whites of his eyes showing, as the electricity sparks across his skin. Steve counts to three Mississippi then releases the trigger and pulls the tip of the baton away. The nipple's red, standing out dark against the Asset's chest. 

Steve looks down, tilting his head pointedly so the Asset can see he's doing it, and looks at the Asset's crotch. There's a bulge starting to show, the Asset's cock swelling beneath the fabric of his pants. Steve feels his own filling out in response.

"You sick fuck," Steve says, and presses the baton to the Asset's nipple again. Another count of three Mississippi, another check of the Asset's crotch. "You fucking like it."

He shoves his boot between the Asset's legs, pressing hard against his balls with the smooth round toecap. The Asset lets out a grunt behind his mask, then Steve triggers the baton again. The Asset arches his back, his crotch slamming into Steve's boot and convulsing against it, his eyes still wide and staring at Steve's visor as he shakes through it. Five Mississippi this time.

Steve waits a beat, then presses again. When he's done, the Asset's actually breathing hard. 

Steve taps the side of his helmet, and JARVIS murmurs quietly in his ear. "Twelve minutes elapsed. Heart rate at forty-eight percent of maximum." 

Steve moves his boot away from the Asset's balls and drops the baton there instead. "Is this what you want? Would that get you off?" He drags the length of it along the crease between the Asset's thighs, then pulls it away. "You're not here to get off."

There's a dial on the side of the baton, under Steve's thumb. He rolls it up a couple of notches, then digs the baton into the Asset's abdomen. Before he can recover, Steve knocks his legs out from under him so he drops onto the bare floor, the chain clanking behind him.

"Get up."

The Asset struggles back to his knees, and Steve does the same thing again from the other side. 

"Get up."

The Asset can't use his hands to help himself up, has to tuck his knees under and work himself up with his core muscles. He's graceful, controlled, even under these circumstances, beautiful in his obedience. He's so _good_ at it. There's something about his sheer competence that gets Steve's blood pumping.

The moment he's kneeling again, Steve knocks him back down. 

"Get up."

"Fifteen minutes," says JARVIS quietly in Steve's ear.

Steve nods in acknowledgement. It's all going according to plan so far. Bucky's responding just like he said he would – compliant, non-verbal, clearly in a very different mental state. If Steve hadn't seen it less than two weeks ago in their own bedroom, hadn't talked to Bucky about it and read his letter and visualized it a hundred times, it'd be terrifying. But it's not the Winter Soldier's murderous blankness, or even the distant absence of a dissociative episode. It's focus, pure and perfect, and it's aimed at Steve, at doing what Steve wants.

The Asset's waiting. Steve knocks him down with another hit from the baton and a hard shove to his hip. 

"Get up," he says, but before the Asset can pull himself upright he stuns him again. "Get up. Get up." A sharp shock from the baton knocks the Asset back every time he starts to pull himself together. He can't get further than halfway vertical before he's back on the ground.

"Get up."

He's setting a nearly impossible task, but the Asset is single-minded, persistent. The cords of his muscles stand out as he strains to resist the electric shocks, to get his knees under him and pull himself up toward the sharp pain of the stun baton. Eventually he holds steady, rigid with effort, the his torso sheened with sweat even as Steve sends a long blast into his side. 

"Not bad," Steve says dismissively, trying to keep the admiration out of his voice. "Let's see your other party tricks."

The Asset tilts his head, as if seeking clarification.

"They told me you suck cock. Show me."

The Asset shuffles forward on his knees and rests the flat surface of his mask against Steve's fly. Steve's dick is coming quickly to attention. He should never have worried that he wouldn't get hard doing this. Seeing Bucky like this – strong and brave and obedient, pushing himself, getting off on Steve's orders, on the sensations Steve's giving him – has always made Steve's head spin and his blood rush to his dick.

"Show me," Steve repeats. The Asset presses his mask against Steve's cock and starts to rub him with it, raising and lowering his chin to apply friction against the rough cloth of the HYDRA uniform pants.

Steve unzips his fly and gets his cock out, then pauses with it in his hand, like he's just thought of something. "You're not much fucking good like that," he says. He takes a handful of the Asset's hair in his hand and yanks at it roughly, pulling his head so he can access the buckle that fastens the mask in place. He undoes it and drops the mask on the floor. 

"Open," he says with another hard tug on the Asset's hair, pulling him back into place. The Asset opens his mouth wide, his tongue pressed down flat. His head's tilted back at a sharp angle, Adam's apple standing out from his throat. 

The Asset's been trained not to bite. The Asset's been trained to take a cock deep in his throat. The Asset doesn't so much as blink when Steve feeds his cock into the Asset's mouth and starts to thrust. His stillness is unnerving, but it's Bucky's mouth, Bucky's throat, and Steve _knows_ it. The tight, wet heat of it, the feel of Bucky's hair tangled around his hands, the blue of his eyes staring up, even if his gaze is distant. They fit together like this – that's how it's meant to be. The Asset takes everything Steve gives him, doesn't struggle or resist, even when tears well over his eyelashes and down his cheeks, even when Steve can tell he's short of air. Steve pulls out for a moment to let the Asset gasp and gulp a couple of lungfuls, then pushes back in. 

Steve won't let himself come yet. There's no real risk of it. He sets a pace he knows he can keep up for as long as he needs to. JARVIS whispers the time and Bucky's vitals in Steve's ear and Steve nods in acknowledgement. There's spit trailing down the Asset's chin, mixing with tears, a wet mess all over his face. 

When Steve feels himself getting close, he pulls out. Quickly, before he can overthink it, he backhands the Asset, then wipes his hand on his pants and zips himself back up over his erection. The Asset snaps his head back into place and closes his mouth. He's breathing hard and his cheek is reddening, but he doesn't show any expression. 

"Asset," Steve says, trying not to let his voice shake, "Status report."

The Asset's voice is thick and heavy, his mouth probably numb as he says, "Ready to comply."

Steve lets out the breath he was holding. He takes stock. About half their allotted time has elapsed. He takes the baton from its hanger on his belt and fingers the dial speculatively. 

"On the floor," he says. He brings down the Asset with a shove to the ribs with the sole of his boot. Another shove pushes him over on his stomach, his face turned sideways so his cheek is smushed against the concrete. Steve yanks at the Asset's hips and reaches around to undo his pants. They catch, a few stitches tearing when he pulls them down. He leaves them tangled around the Asset's ankles and shoves his knees apart.

He presses the stun baton to the inside of the Asset's thigh. His muscles jerk, his bare feet kick out. Steve pins them in place and applies the baton a second time. He can't help noticing the Asset's asshole clenching tight as the electricity contracts his muscles. There's a faint sheen around the pink pucker.

When he pulls the baton away, the Asset's ass flutters, unclenches. Steve shoves a couple of fingers in. Good, the Asset's prepped like they planned. He doesn't resist the intrusion. Steve turns the stun baton over in his hand and carefully sets the dial to minimum, then flips the safety switch. He taps the side of his helmet.

JARVIS states the time and the Asset's vitals, then adds, "I can confirm that the stun baton's safety is engaged." Steve nods, taking one final quick glance at the controls. It's fine. JARVIS has full remote control of the device, in any case, and Steve trusts JARVIS with it, as much as Bucky's trusting him.

Steve presses the baton against the Asset's hole. "Bet you'd get off on this, too," he says. He pushes a finger in and tugs at the Asset's rim, pulling him open, so he can get the blunt head of it past the entrance. 

Steve fucks the Asset with the baton, pulling it out almost all the way with each stroke, watching thick lube coat the length of it. "They told me you'd take anything in the ass," Steve says, his own dick straining at the sight. "Guess it's true."

He angles the head of the baton down. "Bet you'd even come like this. Like a fucking animal." There's a tension in the lines of the Asset's back and his thighs. "Go on, fuck yourself on it. Make yourself come." Steve needs this, even if the Asset doesn't. 

The position's ungainly, but the Asset makes the most of it. With his hands fastened behind his back, his only purchase on the floor is with his chest and his face. He lifts his hips and pushes back, setting up a staccato rhythm, his mouth falling open and his eyes half-shut with concentration. He can only manage short, jerky movements, but Steve makes sure the tip of the baton is pressed against his prostate. When Steve glimpses the Asset's hard, drooling cock between his legs, it's making a damp patch like a snail trail on the concrete. 

"You need a jolt up there to help you? I don't have all day," Steve says. The Asset increases his pace, and Steve tenses in anticipation, his own dick twitching with need. When at last the Asset's cock starts to spurt, Steve pulls the baton out in one quick movement, flips the safety, and presses it to the Asset's perineum. 

The Asset convulses, back arching, come splattering across the concrete in spasmodic arcs. Steve keeps the baton pressed to him until he's empty, then sets it aside. The Asset's hole is pink and wet-looking. Steve's done waiting. He unzips hastily, takes his cock out and shoves it into the Asset's hole, as hard and deep as he can with a single stroke. 

The Asset's still twitching from the stun baton, tight but receptive. He's there to be fucked, Steve reminds himself, grabbing the Asset's hips and slamming into him. Make it hard. Make it mean something. The Asset needs this – to be pushed, to obey no matter what. The Asset can take it. The Asset can take anything, _wants_ to take it. He said he wanted – wanted this, wanted Steve to be his handler – wants Steve. To fuck him hard, to use him, to let him _go away_ , in his head, to give him this –

Steve comes hard, buried balls-deep. 

His hands are tight on the Asset's hips. He has to unclench them through force of will, pull out, wipe himself off and tuck his cock away. He taps the side of his helmet.

"Twenty-four minutes remaining," JARVIS says. "Mr. Barnes's heart rate is at sixty-seven percent of maximum. Yours is at seventy-three percent," he adds conversationally.

The Asset hasn't moved. He's still got his ass in the air, face pressed to the floor. 

Steve kicks at the Asset's hip, rolling him on his side, then grabs his hair to pull him face-to-face with the mess of come on the floor. "Clean that up," he says. 

The Asset starts to lick it up. Steve watches, noting the raw patches on the Asset's cheek where it's been rubbing against the concrete. There are specks of grit stuck to it. _He'll be all right,_ he reminds himself. He's strong, so fucking strong.

"Missed a spot," he says, and uses his boot to push the Asset towards a smear off to one side. He leaves his boot in place, resting on the back of the Asset's head, and considers for a moment. He reaches into one of the pockets of his tactical pants and finds a pack of cigarettes and a lighter that he put there in a creative burst of characterization.

He has to raise his visor to smoke, but the Asset is facedown; he won't see anything. Steve notices a slight tremor in his own hand as he lights the cigarette. _One last thing to do,_ he thinks and takes a deep drag, filling his lungs. The tip of the cigarette glows orange. The smoke disperses quickly; Steve notices the hum of HVAC for the first time. The Asset's chest is rising and falling.

When the cigarette is down to the filter, Steve flicks the butt at the Asset, takes his boot off the back of the Asset's head, and walks out of the room.

* * *

The Asset lies on the floor of the cell where his handler left him. The concrete is cold under his bare skin, sucking heat from his body, but he doesn't move. 

"Asset," comes a voice from the ceiling. The Asset pulls himself up to his knees and focuses, awaiting commands. "Or Mr. Barnes, I should say. It's 1700 hours. As we arranged, I am about to unlock your restraints and the door to this cell. You can leave as soon as you are ready."

There's a _snick_ sound behind the Asset's back and a similar dull sound at the door. He blinks slowly, then pulls his wrists apart. The cuffs fall off, clattering to the floor. 

He takes a deep breath and stands up. His pants are tangled around his ankles, so he kicks them off and walks to the door. There's no doorknob or other feature on it, and the sensor pad to the side of it is unlit. He pushes against the surface of the door and it swings open, unimpeded.

One foot in front of the other. Outside the cell, the light is brighter. Dust motes dance in the air, lit from above by a skylight in the warehouse roof.

"Please proceed to the room to your left," says the voice from the walls. He turns his head. A plain white door stands open. He's been there before. He pauses outside it to listen, then enters quickly, scanning the room. Clear. Another door opposite. He moves toward it, enters, scans again. Clear.

Shower stall. Toilet. Folded towels. A toothbrush. 

He walks into the stall and waits. After a moment, water flows from the nozzle above him. It's warm. He stands under it, letting it flow through his hair and sheet down over his face, wetting him all over. He opens his mouth and swallows some of it. After a while, he reaches for the bar of soap on the shelf.

When he's clean, he replaces the soap and lets the water wash away the suds. The tiles on the wall of the shower are white with a grey stripe. He stares at it. The shower shuts itself off. He steps out.

Toothbrush. Toothpaste. He brushes his teeth, then bends down to cup his hand under the faucet and rinse his mouth. He swallows a few mouthfuls of cool water. He straightens up and looks at the face in the mirror. There's a graze across its cheekbone, like road rash, healing to pink new skin.

"Your street clothes and personal effects are in the locker marked James Barnes," the voice from the wall says.

"Thanks," he says. His voice is raspy. _JARVIS,_ he thinks. "Thanks, JARVIS."

"Please don't hesitate to ask for anything you need," JARVIS adds. "You'll find some food in the other room."

"Steve?"

"Captain Rogers is waiting for you at home," JARVIS says. "He took a car."

He nods. This is what they planned.

There's a small kitchen area in the outer room. In the refrigerator he finds a bowl of fruit, sports drinks, a box of protein bars. He frowns at the protein bars. They don't need to be in the fridge. What the fuck, Steve. He takes one and tears the wrapper, bites of a corner of it, chews slowly. Peanut butter flavor. He wraps it again and puts it in the pocket of his hoodie. 

On the threshold, he squints at the overcast sky from beneath the brim of his baseball cap. Behind him, the warehouse is dark. "You'll lock up?" he asks.

"Of course, sir," JARVIS says. "Use your phone if you need anything further."

He steps into the street. There's a chill in the air, and when he gets to the corner he sees traffic backed up. Rush hour. He's not the only one walking with his chin down and his hands in his pockets. He heads north, blending in while maintaining awareness of movement, sight lines, exit routes.

Industrial buildings turn to warehouse apartments turn to condos. Restaurants and bars that were closed when he came down earlier this afternoon are open, warmly lit. He passes one called Lavender Lake and his brain makes a sound like a record scratch. Why the fuck would you name a bar after toxic waste? He blinks and keeps moving.

More trees, better dressed people. Taxis. He looks around. There's music playing from one of the cars at the intersection. Reggae, he thinks. He listens to it as it pulls away. Crosses over, dodging between vehicles. Someone swears at him. He weaves between pedestrians.

A dry cleaner is closing up for the night, metal grill rolling down noisily over the front window. Shouting from an alleyway – a kitchen hand being bawled out, nothing he needs to worry about. He smells lamb grilling, is suddenly reminded of... Lebanon? 1973. His stomach rumbles. He pulls the peanut butter bar from his pocket and takes another bite.

He rolls his shoulders, lets them settle a little looser. He's only a few blocks from home. Bakery, bookstore, dive bar, newsstand. Stark's on the cover of a magazine again, one of the business ones. He shakes his head, keeps moving.

Their street's quieter, sounds of traffic fading behind him as he heads down it. Brownstones all the way down, all nicely kept, like rich people live there. Which they do, and ain't that a thing.

Home.

He climbs the stairs and pulls out his keys. He's just turning the key in the lock when the door opens, and Steve's there.

"Bucky," Steve says, and pulls him into a hug.

"Hey," Bucky says, letting Steve engulf him. He presses his face to Steve's neck. He sniffs. There's a lingering smell of cigarette smoke, under Steve's clean sweater. "You... smoked," he says. Steve hasn't done that since the war.

Steve huffs a laugh but doesn't let go until Bucky pulls away. "How are you doing?" he asks. "What do you need? I can..." he trails off, looking a little helpless, and gestures toward the living room. The TV's on quietly, and there's a big pile of blankets on the sofa. "I could make tea. Or... are you hungry?"

Bucky's stomach growls, right on time. "Yeah," he says. 

Steve follows him down to the kitchen. "There's a... I bought a cheesecake. It's in the refrigerator. I just thought... cake. You want a slice of cheesecake, Buck?"

Bucky pauses, his hand on the refrigerator door. "Dinner. I want..." he says, and starts pulling things out of the crisper drawer. Vegetables. Some chicken. Yeah, this is what he wants. Real food. He holds a head of broccoli in his hand, staring at it for a moment, the sharp detail of the blue-green surface of it and the damp coolness of the stalks. It's strangely normal.

He takes two knives from the block and hands one to Steve, who blinks before taking it by the handle. "Chop," Bucky says, handing him an onion. "Fine dice."

There's some curry paste. Rice. He opens and closes cupboards until he's got everything he needs. He gets the rice started, puts oil in a pan, starts adding ingredients. The curry spices send a waft of hot deliciousness straight up his nostrils, making him salivate. 

He's almost done, ready to put the lid on and let it simmer a while, before he realizes that Steve's just sitting at the counter staring at his back. Or, no... he knew Steve was sitting and staring, but it took a while for his brain to catch up and notice something's off. He gives the curry a last stir and covers it, then turns around.

Steve gives him a rueful smile. "Guess I should've figured you'd need an actual meal," he says. "Sorry."

"We can have the cheesecake after," Bucky says. Steve looks a little happier at that, though Bucky's not sure if it's because of the cheesecake or the full grammatical sentence.

Bucky moves closer, tilts Steve's chin up with his metal hand, and kisses him. "We good?" he asks, just to be sure.

"Yeah," Steve says. "Yeah. As long as you're good. As long as you got what you needed."

"I'm good," Bucky says. 

"You wanna talk about it?" Steve asks.

Bucky shakes his head firmly. "No. Not... yet."

"Okay," Steve says, his face doing something complicated, but he pulls Bucky toward him.

They make out a little until the food's ready, then serve it up in enormous bowls and take them to the sofa to eat. It's piled deep with blankets, some of which Steve seems to have taken from their bed. 

"Were you cold?" Bucky asks. He doesn't feel cold right now, but maybe the thermostat was playing up again. 

"No, it was... never mind," Steve says, and pushes the blankets aside. "Pass me a fork."

By the time they've each had two bowls of curry and two slices of cheesecake Bucky's feeling full and languid. He stretches out on the sofa with his head in Steve's lap, and Steve strokes his hair. 

Three hours, give or take. Three hours ago he was in a cell, restrained, compliant. Now he's lying on the sofa watching some chef guy swear at people, full of curry that he made in his own kitchen in his rich-person house, and from the feel of it Steve's braiding little strands of his hair that'll wind up sticking out in wild zigzags if he leaves them in overnight. It feels like a knot in his chest has loosened a little, just knowing that he can move between _that_ and _this_ so easily. 

He rolls over and grabs Steve's hand, kisses it. Steve rubs at the scratchy stubble on his jaw, and Bucky leans into it, nudging against his hand like a cat. He curls in closer, wraps an arm around Steve's leg. Steve reaches for one of the blankets and pulls it around them both. 


	4. Chapter 4

Bucky sleeps deeply and wakes up in exactly the same position he went to sleep in, with Steve curled protectively around him. The pillow is smooth and cool under his cheek, the early morning daylight filtering softly through the curtains. The remnants of a dream are slipping away. A good dream. Happy.

He turns to kiss Steve's sleepy face, then disentangles himself from the sheets and heads to the bathroom. When he catches sight of himself yawning in the mirror, his hair is exactly as ridiculous as he expected, braids sticking up everywhere. 

Steve joins him in the shower as he's picking out the braids, letting the water run through the kinked strands. He draws Steve under the water, lets him get wet, and kisses him.

"You going in today?" Bucky asks. He'd like Steve to stay home, to hang onto this easy, contented feeling, but he doesn't need him to cut work if he's got stuff to do.

"I probably should," Steve says with a slight grimace. "Unless you want me to stay home?"

Bucky looks at him through the water spray. He catches a serious, concerned look flicker across Steve's face. "You worried I'm gonna have an episode or something?" he asks, realizing that yeah, of course Steve's worried that Bucky's going to be a mess. It figures.

"I just wanted to offer," Steve says. "In case."

"I'm okay, I think. I mean, I'm pretty sure. I slept well."

"Out like a light," Steve confirms.

"I had a dream about dogs," Bucky says, remembering what had been playing behind his eyelids just before he woke up. White balls of fluff, playing in the park. Bucky lying on the grass, letting them lick him all over his face. Steve standing in the bright sun, laughing at them.

"What kind of dogs?"

"Like those ones we met last week... fluffy, with the ears? We had three of them and they had their own Instagram accounts. They were more popular than you."

Steve pulls a face that Bucky can't interpret at the mention of Instagram, then he laughs and pulls Bucky close, hugging him fiercely. "Okay," he says. "I'll go in, but will you check in? Just text me." 

"Sure," Bucky says into Steve's shoulder.

"You gonna go to the gym?" Steve asks, letting go a little so Bucky can breathe.

"Mika's sick of the sight of me," Bucky says. "Think I'll stay here and nest. I'll do dinner."

"You cooked last night."

"Sure did. Gonna cook tonight too. You wanna try and stop me?"

"Nope," Steve says with a laugh and pulls away from him, then pauses just before he gets out of the shower. "Maybe we can debrief over dinner?" he asks, his voice careful.

"Yeah," Bucky says, and smiles. That's probably a good idea. It seems like Steve needs it, and Bucky's pretty sure that by tonight he'll have his thoughts together enough to talk about it.

He spends the morning cleaning the kitchen, almost disassembling the oven to get into all the places he wants to scrub. A couple of times he catches himself zoning out, crouched with a sponge in his hand, staring at nothing as he remembers himself on the floor of the cell, getting knocked down by Steve and getting up again and again at his command. He catches himself before he loses too much time, pulling himself back to the present. Then he texts Steve. The first time it's just a kissy-face. The second time, as he blinks and closes the refrigerator door, he sends Steve a representation of what he's thinking of cooking, or as close as emoji will let him. The meat symbol is weird. Steve sends back a big grin and a thumbs-up. He hopes Steve's meeting, or training or whatever it is, is going okay.

He browns meat and sautes onions in a cast-iron pan, puts the lid on, and tucks it into his newly-clean oven on low heat. They used to eat like this sometimes on special occasions when they were kids. Bucky can faintly recall the look on Steve's face, his big hungry eyes, when Bucky's ma had put the dish on the table. He scrubs some vegetables to go with it and sets them aside.

The smell of slow-cooked pot roast spreads through the whole house as the afternoon progresses. It permeates into the living room where Bucky's curled up once again with his book, picking up where he left off more than a week ago. 

He hasn't had the brainpower to read it until now, but today his mind is clear, and he easily gets absorbed in the story. He's been working through all the science fiction he missed over the decades, and now he's caught up enough that he's reading some of the more recent stuff. He's so deeply engrossed that he jumps when his phone buzzes. It's just Steve, checking in. Bucky realizes with a guilty start that he hasn't been in touch for hours and sends back, "Sorry, just reading!" and a flying saucer, then goes to start the potatoes.

When Steve gets home, they stand hugging each other in the middle of the hallway for a long time. Steve seems reluctant to let go, but eventually Bucky says, "Food's just about ready," and draws him into the kitchen. 

They sit to eat at the table. Steve inhales deeply over his plate and Bucky grins. It's all disgustingly domestic, but it feels like the perfect counterpoint to yesterday. 

Steve doesn't say anything except for appreciation for the meal until his plate is almost half empty. He looks across at Bucky, quirking a half-smile at him, and says, "So," in the same careful tone he used that morning. "You ready to debrief?"

Bucky's had time to get his head together. "As I'll ever be," he says.

Steve leans forward a little in his chair and looks straight at Bucky, like he's making an effort to do this right. "Was it... what you wanted?"

Bucky nods slowly and turns the memory over in his mind. It feels... discrete. A distinct unit of time, clear and vivid and separate from everything around it. "Yeah," he says, then stalls, looking for words. Steve waits. "It was... it felt right."

Steve's shoulders drop a notch, and Bucky realizes suddenly that Steve didn't _know_ , wasn't sure until now. "So the setup was right?" Steve asks. "The warehouse and all that?"

"Perfect," Bucky says, "seriously." The cell, the restraints, everything about the setup had been just as he specified in his letter. He feels a sudden rush of gratitude for Steve and for the work he put in, taking Bucky's word that it was what he wanted. "But I meant in here." He taps his temple. "It was good. It was..." Accurate. Realistic. Reassuring. 

"Hmm?"

He realizes he's been paused for too long. "You know how hard I worked to be a person again." Steve nods. Steve was there through most of it, and it wasn't pretty. There were days, weeks, where Bucky wasn't able to think for himself, couldn't manage the simplest things. "It's easier now, but it's still work. It felt good to stop working, just relax. To... not have to be human. Comes naturally." Steve looks unhappy, but Bucky keeps going. "I don't... I can't let that happen, usually. Except. This was safe. So I could."

Steve reaches his hand across the table, palm up. Bucky takes it and gives it a squeeze, keeps holding it tight. _Safe_ , he thinks. If anything had gone wrong, if anyone had had to bring him back from somewhere bad, Steve could do it. He always did. 

"Were... were you scared?" Steve asks.

Bucky blinks, and realizes Steve's asking about what happened in the cell. "No," he says. 

They didn't program him to feel fear. Before, when they were still making him... yes, of course. But once he was trained, it was unthinkable. He was either functioning and compliant, or he was wiped. With Steve, he was compliant. What was there to fear?

"Not even –"

"You had my vitals. Did I seem scared?"

"No." Steve shakes his head, and Bucky can see he's remembering how Bucky responded. He wonders what he looked like, to Steve.

"I wasn't. Were you?"

It's Steve's turn to blink and pause before he answers. "I was scared I'd do it wrong. That I'd hurt you."

"I told you you couldn't."

Steve shakes his head. "It could've gone wrong a hundred ways."

"Which is why we had safeties." 

Bucky spent hours thinking them out and laying them out in his letter, but Steve wants reassurance, so they talk through them again. Bucky refills their glasses and Steve starts in again on his food as they drill down into the technicalities of it, the way Steve and JARVIS set everything up, even Bucky's peak heart rate and the snacks Steve left for him. They talk about what Steve did, what he said, how Bucky responded, whether it worked the way it was supposed to. It all worked. It was all good.

All the things Bucky didn't want to talk about before they did it, all the things he'd preferred to set down in a letter, he can talk about now. Now that he's experienced it, now that he knows what it feels like to be there, he can actually get his tongue around the words. 

The more he talks, the more relieved Steve seems. Bucky hasn't been paying enough attention, or he might have noticed Steve's apprehension and uncertainty before they lifted. The fact that Steve did all this for him, regardless... Bucky's got the best guy on the planet, without a doubt.

"So I'm still your favorite handler?" Steve says at last, ducking his head and looking up from under his eyelashes.

"I don't know," Bucky says, "Some masked HYDRA goon fucked me up pretty good yesterday. You might have some competition."

Later, Bucky takes Steve's cock in his mouth to give him the best thank-you blowjob he knows how. Steve's hands rest gentle on his shoulders, flutter cautiously around his ears, until Bucky lifts his mouth up enough to say, "Really? You know me better than that." 

Steve gives him a look. Bucky reaches for one of his hands and brings it back to cup his head, broad palm against the base of his skull. "Gimme something to work with," he says and tilts his head back, resting against the familiar firm pressure of Steve's hand and taking him all the way down.

* * *

Maria flies back from California the following Friday night and Steve spends the whole next day in briefings. The news is disturbing. Zeptr isn't just trying to turn people against the Avengers; they've been involved in a disturbing number of hot issues, and the tendrils of their influence are extending much further than a private company should. 

Maria brings up a projection of an org chart and another of a world map. "They have teams producing social media content to interfere with elections in Kenya, Indonesia, and Chile and they're putting another one together for Canada." She clicks the remote and another pin appears on the map. "In addition to the California office, they have a data center and a lot of staff based out of Sokovia. That's where most of the social media content originates."

Steve has trouble keeping track of Eastern European countries, which were confusing enough even in his day, but he's pretty sure Sokovia isn't known for its tech industry. "Why Sokovia?" he asks, knowing that the answer is probably going to make his head hurt.

"We're not sure," Maria says. "I'm looking into their Sokovian operations, seeing what links there might be to HYDRA in the region." The map shows red dots in all the HYDRA locations they've shut down in the last few years, several of them close to the Sokovian capital. "There's been a lot of political unrest there, too," Maria adds. "Anti-American sentiment. We don't know if that's connected. It could be that Zeptr's causing that, or they could just be taking advantage of it."

Steve tries to concentrate, but his mind wanders as he stares at the map. So many red dots, spreading east after the war, while Steve was under the ice. It was easy for them to hide in the Soviet Union through the 20th century, in an atmosphere of secrecy, mistrust, shifting loyalties. They hid just as easily within the SSR, within SHIELD. Steve didn't even know. He worked for them, unaware, for three years. Does anyone in Sokovia know that HYDRA is there? Would they care if they did?

The only good thing about the red rash of dots on the map is that every one of them is a base that Steve and his team have taken out. One by one, for almost three years now. As far as they know, Zeptr's the last one. After this, there'll be nothing but a few scattered shreds left to clean up. Steve wants to wipe the map clean, erase every trace of them. He'd be out there right now tearing Zeptr apart with his bare hands if he could, but he can't. He can't touch them until Maria's gathered more intel, until they have a clear idea of just how far Zeptr's influence extends and what they need to do to take it down. 

He's not made for this kind of operation. His body wants action, wants something concrete to fight. He was made for punching Nazis, and instead he's up against a shifting cloud of abstract ideas, whispers in the network. 

On top of that, he has to spend his days sitting in a room listening to Tony and Bruce flinging ideas back and forth, interrupting each other and waving their hands around as they try to understand Zeptr's algorithms, while Maria sends through reams upon reams of intel as she extracts it from Zeptr's systems. It's exhausting just trying to keep up with it all. After nine and a half hours sitting in a conference room and a fight with rush hour traffic, he drags his feet up the few steps to the door of their brownstone like he's been fighting aliens for days. 

He smells baking when he opens the door. He toes off his shoes and goes to the kitchen to find a rack of muffins cooling on the counter and Bucky in an apron, making a salad.

"Hey, Buck. Good day?"

"Pretty good," he says. At least someone is. Steve sighs, then steals a muffin and breaks off sections of the top to nibble at. It's raspberry and coconut, and it's delicious, light but not too sweet. 

Bucky looks Steve up and down, taking in the slump of his shoulders, the frown he can't shake even for Bucky. "I was thinking, quiet night in?"

Steve looks up sharply at that. He knows what Bucky's suggesting, and he appreciates the thought, but he's not sure he's got the energy for it. "I don't know," he says. "I'm kinda tired."

"No shit," Bucky says sympathetically. "Maybe you need to take a break, huh?" He comes in close and wraps his hand around the back of Steve's neck, pressing his fingers into the muscles to feel the tightness Steve's holding there. "Take your mind off whatever's got you like this." He runs his thumb down the column of muscle to the side of Steve's spine. 

Steve holds his breath, then lets it out. He likes that Bucky wants to give him a chance to get out of his head. He's just not sure it'll work. "You can try," he says.

"Oh, I'm gonna," says Bucky. "Just let me take care of you. You'll see."

If Bucky can take his mind off Sokovia and Zeptr and whatever the hell HYDRA has gotten its dirty fingers into in all those countries... yeah, he'll take it. He lets his breath out slowly. "Okay," he says.

Bucky slides his other hand under Steve's shirt and pulls him into a brief, tight hug. "Food first, then you can go get ready."

Steve finishes the muffin, accepts a plate of salad and quiche, and takes his time eating them while he and Bucky talk about their day. A lot's changed since Steve lived alone in SHIELD housing. Now he gets to come home to this, to Bucky, alive and whole and apparently on a baking kick. He'll never tire of seeing Bucky comfortable, at home in their home. Bucky _makes_ it a home.

By the end of the meal he's starting to feel a flutter of hopeful anticipation in his stomach. He heads upstairs and takes his time showering and getting clean, trying to let the hot water wash away some of his day. When he comes back out, naked, he notices the heat's been turned up a few degrees so it's warm on his skin. Bucky's still in the kitchen, pulling things out of the pantry and lining them up on the counter. The plastic tub from their bedroom closet is on the table.

"Hi," Steve says, standing in the archway between the kitchen and the living room. He watches Bucky work for a moment before he asks, "Where do you want me?"

Bucky looks over his shoulder. "Right where you are. Just a sec." He checks the collection of ingredients he's assembled and shuts the cabinet. He grabs a few things from the plastic tub and comes over to the archway. "Hey," he says, planting a warm kiss on Steve's lips and running his hands over his bare skin, paying attention to the tension in his muscles. "You ready to go?"

"Uh huh," Steve says, managing a smile. 

"Good." Bucky holds up a ball gag and touches it to Steve's lips. Steve opens them and lets the ball slide in, falling into place behind his teeth. It tastes a little like the sanitizer they use to clean it. Bucky moves around behind him to buckle it. 

The blindfold goes on next, soft pads slipping over Steve's eyes. Bucky smooths it into place, then runs his hands over Steve's shoulders and arms. "Reach up," he says. "Legs apart."

Steve extends his hands, feeling for the wooden lintel that frames the archway, and holds on to it. He shuffles his legs apart as wide as he comfortably can. He's rewarded by Bucky running his flesh hand down his side, then up the inside of his thigh, using his fingernails. Steve focuses his attention on that hand, on the point of contact where Bucky's touching him.

"You're gonna stay here for me, and I'm gonna bake bread," Bucky says, and wraps his hand around Steve's scrotum, making a ring with his thumb and forefinger. He pulls downward, not too hard, just enough to make Steve draw in breath. That's a hint of what's coming. Steve's mind wants to play out the likely scenarios, predict what Bucky will do, but he tries to push it aside. He reminds himself that none of this is his responsibility tonight. He has to just let it happen. 

Bucky steps away for a minute, and when he returns he gives Steve's balls a firmer squeeze, making him squirm and grunt. There's a rustle of movement, the sound of Bucky dropping to his knees. He fastens a leather harness around Steve's balls, buckling it in place. It's a familiar sensation, snug around his sack with metal clips swinging below it. A soft click, and Bucky attaches a weight to it. He cradles it in his hand, then he lets go slowly, allowing gravity to take over. Steve feels it as a steady pressure on his balls, pulling them away from his body. He lets out a soft moan behind his gag, letting Bucky know how much he appreciates it.

Bucky stands and kisses his cheek just above the strap of the gag, then tweaks his nipples. "Don't go anywhere," he says.

Steve doesn't plan to. He settles in, listening to Bucky moving quietly around the kitchen, the soft _shhh_ of ingredients in the mixing bowl and the occasional clank of utensils. He knows Bucky's got one eye on him, that he's watching as Steve settles in. 

"I was thinking of using the machine, but I decided to do it the regular way instead," Bucky says. "I got a recipe online. It's half rye. You leave it overnight." It sounds good, but of course Steve doesn't comment. 

There's a sound of water in the sink and then Bucky returns. He taps the weight hanging from Steve's balls, setting it swinging, and Steve rocks on his toes. The pinch of Bucky's fingers on his nipple comes as a surprise, and he yelps behind his gag and flinches, making the weight swing harder between his legs.

"Shh," Bucky says, pressing his hand – the flesh one – flat against Steve's chest. "Jeez, you're wound tight tonight. You gonna let it go for me, baby?"

Steve wants to. He'll try. He makes an "mmm" sound behind his gag, and takes a couple more deep breaths.

"I'll add another weight. That'll help, won't it?" 

Steve nods, and Bucky crouches down and clips another weight in place, letting it drop gently into place. It's starting to make Steve's balls ache, a steady pull that focuses his attention. He can feel his mind calming as he breathes into it and becomes accustomed. A third weight follows it, definitely painful, his balls stretched tight and aching. Finally, thank God, it's hard to think about anything else.

Bucky kisses him again, warm and soft on his jaw. "Better?" he asks, and Steve nods again.

Bucky runs his hand over Steve's chest, stopping to pinch one nipple and then the other, hard enough that Steve squirms and gasps as the weights swing between his legs. Bucky spends a while on Steve's tits, shifting back and forth, giving them equal attention, until Steve can't think about anything else. Then, with a final tweak, he lets Steve go and goes back to doing his thing in the kitchen.

He talks as he works, nothing consequential, just commenting on the recipe and narrating the ingredients as he weighs them out. It's almost like he's talking to himself. It suits Steve just fine. His mind's settling down, slowing like molasses. He's happy to stand where Bucky puts him indefinitely, like a piece of furniture, a hall stand maybe, with nothing expected of him but to be present.

Bucky finishes the next stage of his bread and comes back to add more weight. Steve's zoned out by now, his brain pleasantly mushy. He responds to Bucky's questions with a low moan. Whatever Bucky's suggesting, it's all good. Steve doesn't need to have an opinion, doesn't need to make any decisions.

Bucky starts kneading Steve's tits and Steve rocks into his touch, letting the weights swing and pull at his balls. Bucky grabs handfuls of Steve's flesh and squeezes, metal hand on one side, flesh on the other, careful to squeeze both sides with the same pressure. Steve knows he marks easily; if he bruised like a normal person he'd have fingerprint marks on his skin for days. As it is, he just melts into the points of pain at the tips of Bucky's fingers, knowing that the memory of the sensation is all he'll have tomorrow. He can feel muscle knots he's been carrying for days untie themselves. If Bucky hadn't told him to hold his position, he'd slump into a puddle.

Bucky's fingertips pull inward, points on a star contracting until they meet at Steve's nipples. He pinches and tugs at them, making Steve gasp and squirm. The metal is hard and unyielding. Bucky switches sides after a while. He can lock his finger and thumb in place like a vise, a fixed distance apart. First one side, then the other, pulling and twisting, a precise, infinitesimal fraction of an inch tighter each time. 

It's a burning, steady pain, impossible to ignore. Steve moans into his gag and squirms as far as his stance will let him, which is not very far at all. Then Bucky lets go and flicks at Steve's nipples with his finger, one then the other, making Steve squawk twice and almost let go of the lintel.

"Back in a sec," Bucky says, and gives Steve's ass a proprietorial grope. Steve can hear him heading for the living room. A scuffling sound, and an odd bump. Bucky returns. He brushes past Steve coming through the archway, then thumps something down in front of him. "One more thing," he says, and goes back to the living room again. Another thump on the floor in front of Steve, this one softer.

"Okay," Bucky says, stepping in close and pressing against Steve's body. One hand cups Steve's balls, feeling the tight, drum-taut stretch of the skin. The other, the metal one, slides up Steve's side, up his arm, and clasps Steve's hand where he's gripping the wood of the archway. "You can drop your hands," Bucky says, and guides Steve's hand down to his side, then lets go of Steve's balls to guide the other one down as well. 

His arms feel floppy, numb, like he's forgotten how to use them. Bucky's holding both his hands and pulls him gently forward out of the archway. "Can you kneel?" Bucky asks. "Keep your knees apart." 

Steve lets Bucky guide him down, and finds that there's a cushion on the floor in front of him. He settles with his knees apart, the weights still swinging from his balls, sending throbbing sensation up into his body. 

"Got an hour to kill," Bucky explains. "Thought I might get comfortable, read a little." Steve realizes what the first thump was – Bucky brought an armchair into the kitchen so he can sit close by Steve while he waits for his dough to rise.

There's a scrape across the floor: Bucky pulling the chair into place. He sits down. "Hands behind your back." Steve clasps his hands as if at parade rest and waits while Bucky settles himself.

There's a soft jingle as Bucky takes something from his pocket. Steve recognizes the sound of the nipple clamps a moment before Bucky applies them. They bite sharply but not unbearably on his tender skin. He gasps and tenses for a moment, then makes himself relax.

A chain connects the two clamps, and Bucky holds it loosely in his hand as he settles into the armchair to read. Steve can hear the quiet susurration of the pages turning, and Bucky's slow, even breath. Every so often Bucky pulls on the chain, making sensation flare bright behind Steve's blindfold; in between, there's just the slow, hot ache of his balls and his tits, a triangle framing his torso, a boundary for his mind. His thoughts stay easily inside this perimeter Bucky's drawn for him.

Time passes. Steve doesn't keep track of it, but eventually a high-pitched beeping from the kitchen timer. Bucky unfolds himself from the chair and smooths his hand through Steve's hair before going to turn it off. Steve finds himself becoming a little more aware, listening to Bucky moving things around, opening the fridge, running the faucet. He doesn't _need_ to stretch his legs, but he feels like he maybe could. He tongues the rubber ball in his mouth, feeling the saliva pooling around it.

"Hey," Bucky says, and he's back, right in front of Steve, his hand soft in Steve's hair again. He stands close, nudging at the cushion with his feet, and presses his crotch against Steve's face. His cock is half-hard under his soft sweatpants, getting harder as he brushes it against Steve's cheek. "You wanna take care of me?" Bucky asks, and Steve nods quickly, making sure to rub against Bucky's cock as he does.

"Unh-hunh," he says around the gag.

"You don't have to do anything," Bucky says, unfastening the buckle and removing the ball from Steve's mouth. "Just stay right there." Steve keeps his mouth open, waiting, ready.

Bucky's fingers are the first thing he feels in his mouth, gathering up saliva and spreading it around his lips to make sure they're nice and wet. He's grateful for it, and for the touch of Bucky's fingertips on his tongue, the scent of dough still on them. Bucky's cock-head swipes across Steve's lower lip before he slides it into Steve's mouth. Bucky's careful, just giving Steve a couple of inches, his hand wrapped around the base. Steve curls his tongue, feels Bucky's cock press against his palate, tastes the salt on his skin. Bucky cradles his metal hand behind Steve's head, holding him steady.

He doesn't have to act, doesn't have to think. He has no plan. He just _is_. Is here, is Bucky's, is loved and taken care of, is giving Bucky pleasure just by existing. Bucky's saying sweet things, things that would make Steve blush at any other time. He lets the words flow warm and luxurious over his skin, wrap around him, support him. He feels weightless, like he'd drift away if Bucky weren't holding him there. 

Bucky's come is bitter on his tongue. He lets it pool and drip, doesn't close his mouth or swallow until Bucky exerts a gentle pressure under his chin. There's a glass of water. He sips. Bucky's hand is still gentle in his hair.

"Ready for these to come off?" Bucky asks, touching the clamps on Steve's nipples. Steve nods, and takes a sharp shuddering breath as blood flows back into the abused flesh. Bucky rubs them, and Steve can't help whimpering. The weights come off his balls next, leaving them feeling light and loose. The air feels strange on his skin. 

Bucky reaches behind Steve's back and takes his hands, helping him unclasp them, and pulls them forward. "Come here," he says, and Steve falls towards him. He lets Bucky catch him and pull him down so he's curled on the cushion in front of Bucky's armchair, his head pillowed on Bucky's thigh. "There you go," Bucky says.

The pads of the blindfold press against Steve's eyelids, keeping them closed. He doesn't want to come out from behind them yet, doesn't want to think about anything else just yet. He can spend as long as he wants here. Bucky picks up his book again and settles down to read, his hand resting softly on Steve's head.

* * *

Steve's glad of the short respite when he ends up spending the next few days deep in data analysis. Zeptr's gearing up for something, and their activity on social media is more and more disturbing – at least according to Natasha, who understands these things better than any of them. 

"It's not hard to make people think whatever you want them to," she says with a one-shouldered shrug. "Especially if they don't know you're doing it." Steve thinks about what HYDRA does when it gets into people's heads, imagines them targeting people with influence, politicians, scientists... even his own PR team, the people who manage his social media presence. Even with Maria's access to Zeptr's systems, it hasn't been easy to tell exactly who's targeted by the Zeptr campaigns.

The call to Assemble comes one evening when Steve and Bucky are settled in with Netflix and takeout. It's late afternoon in California, and Maria's face on Steve's phone looks angry. 

Steve shoves one last bite of food in his mouth and grabs his go bag. "Love you," he says to Bucky, pausing to kiss him before he gets on his bike and heads into Manhattan.

"Don't do anything stupid," Bucky says, his hands gripping Steve's jacket tightly.

"Leaving it all with you," Steve says, then pauses. "You'll stay off social media?" he asks.

"Yeah," Bucky says, frowning. He always stays away from the news when Steve's on an op, he knows, but this time it's not just about Bucky's anxiety. Steve doesn't know what might happen with Zeptr, and his gut clenches at the thought of how they might target Bucky if they've managed to identify his profiles.

Maria briefs them remotely, still on the West Coast. It looks like she came straight to her apartment from the Zeptr office, and is wearing a hoodie with the startup's logo on it, her hair in a loose ponytail. She's buzzing with barely-controlled energy, leaning forward into her computer's camera as she speaks.

"We've found out what they're doing in Sokovia. It's a special research division. They're preparing for a major software launch in two days," she says. "The head of R&D on that project is Wolfgang von Strucker. He's ex-SHIELD. Worked on the Tesseract." The image on the screen shows a Steve Jobs type with buzzed short hair and a black turtleneck presenting at a conference.

"But that's energy research," Bruce says. "What does the Tesseract have to do with social media?"

Tony barks a quick laugh. "Guess they're trying to move _really_ fast and break _a lot_ of things," he says.

"We don't know what the connection is," Maria says, "But it's likely that when HYDRA scattered after the Triskelion, Strucker stole Loki's scepter."

"Zeptr," Natasha says, flatly.

"Exactly." 

"And this software launch in two days?" Bruce asks, his voice very calm.

"If they're already using AI to influence people via social media and they've found a way to hook it up to whatever power the scepter generates... wow, okay, that could be nasty," Tony says, his eyes wide.

"What kind of nasty?" Steve asks.

"With the power in that thing? We're talking massive-scale, real-time microtargeting based on individual psychographics, with near-instantaneous feedback to the neural network which would give you, whoa, orders of magnitude more capacity –"

"In English?"

"Project Insight without the helicarriers. Worse. It'd be in everyone's home computer, in their phones..."

"Everyone?"

"Anyone with a social media account. Or anyone who visits a website with their trackers, which is even more. About ninety percent of the US population, maybe three or four billion people worldwide."

"No actual lasers though?" Sam cuts in. He's been following along quietly, but now it seems like he's trying to get his head around what they're actually fighting here.

"They wouldn't need to kill anyone," Tony says, leaning forward over the table. "Way too obvious. That scepter can control minds. If they hook it up to what they're already doing, they could just sway whoever they wanted to HYDRA's cause, or make them kill each other. You'd never even know you'd been targeted."

Steve stares at him, then looks at Maria, who nods in confirmation. "Nasty," he says, feeling queasy.

Tony throws his hands up. "That's what I _said_."

"Sounds like an understatement."

Steve looks around the table. Clint and Natasha's faces are particularly grim. Steve tries to imagine what it would be like if the scepter were controlling half the world the way Loki controlled Clint and the other agents. Armies, governments, media... regular people on the street, on the subway. All recruited to HYDRA's cause without even knowing it, via their Facebook feeds. It's a nightmare. They have to stop it.

Maria and Steve split the team in half. Clint, Natasha and Bruce head to Sokovia with Steve to retrieve the scepter while Tony and Sam head west to meet up with Maria and shut down the US office. It spreads them thinner than Steve would like, but they need to strike both sites at once if they want to take down their systems completely. 

"Off to Europe," Steve texts Bucky from the quinjet, before they go into comms lockdown. "2-3 days I think." Bucky's cleared to know this much, and Steve tries to give him just enough detail to be reassuring. Bucky texts back a thumbs up. Steve switches off his phone, hoping Bucky's doing the same thing.

"They've been laying off staff at the Novi Grad office in preparation for the launch," Maria says over the comms as they come in to land, "but there'll still be about a hundred people in the building. Most of them are contract employees, not HYDRA."

"Security?" Steve asks.

"They're definitely HYDRA," Maria says. "Shouldn't be too many, though – they're trying to look like a legitimate business, and they have the support of the local government."

"Right." 

They land the quinjet, in stealth mode, in a vacant lot next to the Zeptr office. It's a nondescript concrete building near the city's institute of technology, nothing to make it stand out except for the gem-like blue logo above the front entrance. Like so many of the HYDRA installations they've taken down since the helicarriers, it looks like a regular business. A couple of young guys in Zeptr hoodies are smoking in the parking lot, talking enthusiastically with their hands. Steve and Natasha go around the back and infiltrate the building via the security entrance as Clint quietly takes out the guards around the perimeter.

"JARVIS, you got those network schematics?" Natasha asks. JARVIS's reply comes over the team comms channel, guiding them towards the nearest office with a connected computer. It looks like a manager's just stepped out to a meeting. Natasha sidles in and sticks a flash drive into the machine. "That should take out their Internet connection in..." She checks her watch. "Just under two minutes."

They make for the stairs and head downward. 

"Zeptr is offline, Captain Rogers," JARVIS says in Steve's ear as they reach the bottom. "Both offices' communications are completely isolated from the wider Internet." 

Natasha and Steve each take down one of the HYDRA agents guarding the door to the data center, and Steve's shield deals with the security door itself. There are two more agents inside whose shots go wild, hitting something in the ceiling and showering sparks, before they're neutralized. An alarm sounds.

Two rows of servers, glowing with blue light, line either side of the room. There's a door at the far end, which opens to reveal a couple of guys in hoodies, looking confused at the blaring alarms.

"Hey!" says one of them, catching sight of Steve. Civilians, Steve remembers. Maria said they were contractors, not HYDRA, but if so, what are they doing in the server room? He takes them down with his shield, knocking them out, and steps over them into the other room.

"I'll get this started," Natasha says behind him, turning to the first of the servers. Steve nods. He's expecting more guards, perhaps Strucker himself, but there's nothing but a lab bench. On it, the head of Loki's scepter with its glowing blue stone is sitting in a carefully machined case. It's connected to several different-colored cables, which trail across the bench and disappear into a conduit. A row of monitors on the wall show scrolling text, nothing that makes much sense to Steve's unpracticed eye.

"Widow," Steve says into his comm. "When you've got a moment."

He stands guard over the scepter, shield at the ready, feeling slightly ridiculous. It's not doing anything, just glowing, though some small lights are flashing red on the case around it. He can't tell whether that's ominous or whether they're just reacting to the broken network connection cutting Zeptr off from the outside world. 

This is no Chitauri invasion, no Battle of Manhattan. Just a room humming with the sound of ventilation fans, the blue of the scepter's stone almost dull under the fluorescent lighting. The same evil that brought aliens through a wormhole and almost destroyed his city, that took over Clint's mind and used him as a pawn, made him attack his friends, was... doing what, now? Trying to connect to Facebook. It seems trivial, innocuous, until he visualizes the tendrils of blue fire racing along the wires, almost instantaneously connecting every city and every home and every phone to HYDRA's twisted agenda.

"A bit anticlimactic," Natasha says from the doorway. Steve lowers his shield and lets her come up beside him to take a look. She walks around the bench examining the scepter from a few different angles, then shrugs and starts unplugging cables with ruthless efficiency.

It all seems too easy. Steve should have known better. Just as Natasha's packing the scepter into its padded case, they hear a faint crashing sound from above. Both of them look up, at the same time as Clint's voice comes through in their comms. "Looks like we've got a code green in the executive suite," he says. 

"We're on our way," Steve replies. He and Natasha run for the stairs, grabbing the data drives from the server room on the way out. 

The office building is in a state of chaos, alarms blaring. Most of the staff are streaming for the emergency exits. Steve and Natasha push against them like salmon swimming upstream. On the second floor, Natasha looks to one side and sees a scattering of staff still at their desks.

"Wait," she says, and ducks aside into the maze of cubicles. Steve follows her, covering.

At the same time, JARVIS says, "Zeptr seems to have re-established network traffic between the two offices. I'm also seeing social media traffic relating to your operation."

The staff at their desks are working quickly, responding to messages popping up on their screens. Natasha stalks over to one of them and pulls her chair away from her desk. 

"What do you think you're doing?" Natasha asks. "Get out of here."

"We're making the world a better place," she says. She's young, not much more than a teenager, black eyeliner heavy around her eyes. She has a Sokovian accent. "We've had enough of your American propaganda." She spits "American" as if it's a curse, and lunges back for the keyboard.

Natasha rolls her eyes and hits the girl with her Widow's bite, letting her drop to the ground. "Sorry, kid," she says, then spins around. The others are standing up now, converging on her position. They're not combat-trained, but they're moving with conviction. Steve flanks them and takes out a few with well-aimed punches, then sees that there's one still at his desk, typing frantically.

"Captain," JARVIS says, "'Zeptr Raid' is trending locally on Twitter, along with hashtags designating the Avengers as fascists and terrorists."

"You," Steve calls out, raising his voice at the same time as he engages a couple more employees with his shield. The kid looks up over his shoulder, then back at his computer. His bleached hair is sticking up crazily, and he looks terrified, but he doesn't stop typing. "Your employers aren't who you think they are. They're HYDRA, and they're trying to control people's minds. You don't have to do this."

Natasha drops a few more kids with her widow's bite, leaving them lying scattered on the floor, and reaches the one at the computer. She draws her sidearm and stands over him. "We have the scepter," she says. "Your AI won't reach full capacity without it. Stand down."

"It's my job," he says, his voice shaking. "We're making the world a better place." 

He goes to press enter, and Natasha lets off three shots, straight through his computer. The kid cringes and drops under his desk, covering his head with his arms. 

Steve starts restraining the rest of the employees with zip ties. He looks up as he hears another crash from the upper floor, and hurries to get them secured.

"Hill," Natasha says into her comms, "I thought you said these were civilians, not HYDRA."

Maria's voice sounds strained, as if she's in the middle of a fight. "Guess they've been spending too much time on social media," she says. "We're seeing the same thing here. It's like they've bought into what Zeptr's doing even though they don't know what HYDRA is."

"We're going to have to round them all up," Steve says. "Hawkeye, do you have eyes on the civilian staff outside?"

"There's a crowd forming," Clint says. "Not just staff."

"Geotagged posts suggest that Sokovian activists are calling for resistance. They're gathering at your location," JARVIS offers.

"Cover them," Steve replies. "Don't let the employees go."

"Seriously?"

"They're brainwashed," Steve says, and Clint swears viciously on the other end of the comms.

A louder crash comes from above, and dust rains down from the ceiling. "Natasha, get the scepter to safety then get down to Clint's position and give him some backup. I'll deal with Hulk."

Natasha secures the last of the office staff and heads for the exit. Steve keeps moving upstairs. On the upper floor a trail of debris leads them to the Hulk, who's holding a huge conference table over his head, about to fling it at three men cowering against the wall.

"NO MEETING," Hulk shouts, shaking remnants of broken glass from the window frames.

One of the men is Strucker. He's got a cell phone in his hand, managing to type something on its screen even as he cowers against the wall.

Steve pushes past the Hulk. He's focused on Strucker and his phone, but in his peripheral vision he catches one of the other managers pulling a handgun from inside his jacket. He flings his shield sideways, breaking the guy's arm and sending the gun skidding across the floor, then catches it on the rebound to slam it into the other guy, who's taken a fighting stance. This one knows what he's doing, and ducks the shield, coming up inside Steve's guard.

"You're too late," he says, throwing a punch. Steve catches his fist and twists, flipping the guy over so he lands hard on the carpeted floor with an "oof!" 

He struggles to push himself upright, but Hulk picks him up in one hand and his buddy in the other and tosses them out the window. Hulk roars, then leaps after them. Steve glances out over the parking lot, where Hulk's landed and is slamming the two HYDRA guys into the asphalt, and sees flashing lights and crowds gathering. He can hear sounds of chanting in a language he doesn't know.

Steve looks up to see Strucker sneering at him. "You think you can stop technology? You're an artifact, Captain. You're not made to deal with the modern age. This isn't something you can punch into submission. Just watch. Before long, HYDRA will have the whole world's hearts and minds in its hands." 

Steve grabs Strucker's phone and crushes it in his hand. "We'll see."

"Our algorithms are out there already. You can't stop it."

They've got the scepter, though. Natasha will have gotten it safely to the quinjet by now. Whatever Zeptr's released so far, it's missing its power source. It might be able to sway opinion, but it can't control billions of minds outright.

There's nobody else coming. It's just him and Strucker. Strucker's sneering at him, and Steve's done with this. He's just done. He might not be able to punch the entire Internet, but he can punch this one slimy, evil bastard. Steve pulls back and hits Strucker with all he's got. He drops like a wet sack. Steve drops his fist and stands over him, breathing hard.

"Hill," Steve says into his comms as he bends over to cuff Strucker's hands, "We've got the scepter and we've got Strucker. And a lot of civilian staff."

"Copy that," Hill says. "We've secured the US servers and most of the engineering team." 

There's a small explosion from outside, either one of Clint's arrows or a Molotov cocktail. Steve hears sirens in the distance. "Hawkeye, Widow," he says, "status?"

"Scepter's secure," Natasha says. 

"Could use a hand," Clint says. "We've got protestors and, uh... yeah, police. Those are police."

By the time Steve gets down to the parking lot, there's a cluster of people with hastily made signs, shouting and chanting. Steve makes out "America" and "Fascist." Clint's herded the employees into one corner of the parking lot. Steve winds up helping to contain them as the local police pull in, lights flashing. Before long the Sokovian military show up too, along with a couple of news crews. 

It's a colossal mess. Steve's glad Natasha's there, ready to convince the Sokovian authorities to cooperate with what is, essentially, an unauthorized American operation on their soil. It takes hours to get the prisoners taken away in police trucks and all night in meetings with government officials to convince them to take it seriously. Avengers PR are handling the media as best they can, and Steve spares a moment to hope they're getting paid overtime. Protests keep flaring up in the streets until late into the night.

Steve manages to get a few hours of sleep and a shower in their safe house before Natasha returns, looking tired. Bruce is passed out on one of the beds and Clint's been sitting up all night, disassembling and reassembling his bow, all his arrows spread out on one of the beds. He looks up at Natasha's entrance, and Steve can see the tension in the lines of his face.

"I've done all I can," she says. "They'll cooperate. Let's get out of here." 

In the quinjet, Steve slumps down on the bench seat across from Natasha as Clint takes the pilot seat. It's the first chance they've had to talk. "Strucker said it's out there already," he says. "Already affecting people. Those civilian contractors, the protestors..." He can see the kids' faces in his mind's eye, the certainty that they were doing the right thing as they sent HYDRA's messages out to the Internet.

"We knew that," Natasha says. "We've been watching their algorithms for weeks. At least we stopped it from powering up. We stopped it from getting much, much worse."

"That's something," Steve says, and tries to feel good about it.


	5. Chapter 5

When Steve's away, the most important thing is routine. If Bucky can just keep moving through all the things he has to do – eating and showering and going to the gym and doing laundry and shopping for groceries – and stay the hell away from the media, he'll be okay. He's done it enough times by now. He's got this. 

He carries his phone with the ringer turned up and plugs it into the charger on the nightstand when he goes to bed. Whenever he's tempted to check CNN or Twitter, he turns the phone face down and does something else instead. He's been there, done that, and the resulting spiral is never good. Besides, he promised Steve.

He needs to distract himslf. It's a good opportunity to take on a project, so he talks Mika into helping him rearrange the free weights area to make more room for classes. They stay back after closing to move all the equipment around. Some of it's bolted to the floor and all of it's heavy. Bucky does most of the heavy lifting while Mika wields the tools and the clipboard. It feels good to use his body, to feel his muscles tire at least a little.

When they're done, they wind up at the all-night diner around the corner. Mika eats a bowl of chili more slowly than Bucky would've thought possible, while Bucky orders two enormous burgers and puts the fries in the middle of the table where Mika can get at them if they want.

"My brother's in Iraq," Mika says out of nowhere, when Bucky's almost finished his second burger.

"I didn't know you had a brother," Bucky says. He can't remember Mika mentioning it before.

"We don't talk." Mika looks down, scraping the last of the chili out of their bowl.

Bucky's not sure what to say to that. He can't imagine not talking to family if you have them. Mika doesn't look too happy about it either, but Bucky remembers a few things Mika's said about their family around holiday time, so he just says, "That must be tough."

Mika shrugs it off, and says, "D'you know how long Steve'll be gone for?" 

Bucky didn't tell Mika that Steve was on an op, but it's probably obvious from the way Bucky's taking on random projects to keep himself busy, or how he's sitting in an all-night diner rather than being at home right now. Or maybe Mika saw something about the Avengers on the news. Bucky doesn't ask, doesn't want to know. "He said a coupla days."

"Knock on wood," Mika says, rapping on the table. Bucky nods, then flags down a waitress to order more coffee for both of them. Mika reaches across and steals a couple of fries.

"Don't you need to sleep?" Bucky asks. He appreciates Mika hanging out, but he feels bad for letting his own fucked-up brain mess up Mika's life as well as his own.

"Don't you?" Mika shoots back at him.

"Not really." He can skip a night, and even if he did go home he's pretty sure he wouldn't sleep well. He takes a fry in turn and chews on it. It's a stand-off; looks like Mika's gonna keep sitting with him in this diner until he's ready to leave. 

"So," he says, "nobody waiting at home for you?" He hopes he's not overstepping any employer-employee boundaries, but after all, Mika did start with talking about family, and Bucky's pretty sure this is actually a friend situation. 

"If only," Mika says, then raises an eyebrow archly and grins. "But I did just start seeing someone. You wanna see a pic?" 

Bucky spends the next hour learning way more than he ever wanted to about Grindr – and God almighty is he glad he doesn't have to deal with _that_ particular aspect of the future – then discovers that Mika's an untapped well of hilarious opinions about classic sci-fi movies. Mika's great company, in fact, a thousand times better company than Bucky would be for himself right now, with his mind throwing up endless worst-case scenarios for him to try to beat down.

He drinks about three more cups of coffee and orders pie for both of them before Mika starts yawning.

"You oughta go home," he says, then gives Mika a look that stops them from throwing that straight back at him. "Who's opening?"

"Brendan? Yeah, it's Tuesday. Brendan."

"Guess I'll see him there," Bucky says, and pulls out his wallet to pay the bill. He can go kill a couple of hours at the gym before it officially opens.

By the third day, he's just about exhausted his ability to keep busy. He's been up since before dawn, woken by a nightmare that had him crouched shaking in the corner of the bedroom until the sun rose. He's turned the house upside down cleaning, music playing loud enough to drown out everything else. He's made food and eaten it every few hours whether he's hungry or not. He wants a fucking medal. 

His phone buzzes in the middle of the afternoon, when he's flattening empty boxes in the basement. It's Steve, thank fucking God. Once Bucky's established that Steve's in one piece and didn't do anything stupider than usual, Steve says, "Thor's coming in to wrap some stuff up. Stark's throwing a party. Want to come?"

_Yes_. Anything to get out of the house, and he'll get to see Steve that much sooner. It's been a while since Bucky's been to the Tower, caught up with all the Avengers. "Sure," he sends, at the same time as Steve texts, "Sorry, Stark says shindig, not party," and then adds, "No tux required."

Bucky rolls his eyes. Then he pictures Steve in his tux, and thinks maybe they'll have to go to one of Stark's fancy parties sometime soon. When Steve's home, in one piece, back where he belongs.

"I'll be there," he texts. And then sends half a dozen hearts, which is not enough.

He races upstairs, tosses his sweats in the hamper, showers, and shaves off his scruff. It might only be a shindig, whatever that means, but Bucky's fella's coming home and that's enough of an occasion to look nice.

He takes the subway to Manhattan. There's a TV screen showing Natasha and Steve as he comes up out of the station. He lets himself look, since he knows they're okay, but all the crawling text at the bottom of the screen tells him is that Fox News hates them as much as ever. There's a brief scene of protestors, and he makes out text on one of their signs: "Americans out." He doesn't see any dead bodies though, no explosions. 

The security guards at Avengers Tower know him and scan him through quickly. He takes a private elevator straight to the 50th floor.

There's a corner of the quinjet bay where Bucky likes to wait. It's off to one side, with a good view of both the airspace approach and the entrance to the Tower proper. Bucky tucks himself crosslegged onto the ledge and leans back against the wall, trying not to jitter.

After a while he says, "Hey, J."

"Good afternoon, Mr. Barnes."

"How's things?"

"Very well, thank you. The Tower is operating smoothly and the perimeter is secure. Can I help you with anything?"

"Just thought I'd say hi, since I'm here." He's got time to kill, and it's better if he doesn't spend it in his own head. JARVIS knows him well enough to keep him company when he's like this. "Where is everyone?"

"Quinjet 2's ETA is about twenty minutes. Mr. Stark, Ms. Hill and Mr. Wilson have already returned and are preparing for debriefing. Thor has not yet arrived." 

JARVIS projects a plan of the tower showing the locations of those Avengers who are present, along with the life-signs indicators of all the staff on the lower floors. There's nobody closer than two floors away. Bucky takes a quick glance over his shoulder anyway before he says, "The, uh. The Asset thing the other day," Bucky says. "I didn't really say thanks."

"I was glad to assist, sir."

"That's not something you normally do."

"In the time I've been in Mr. Stark's employ, I've learned that very few things are."

"Right." Bucky thinks for a bit about Stark, and about the kinds of stuff he probably gets up to. Steve dressing up in a HYDRA uniform and fucking Bucky with a stun baton might not be the kinkiest shit JARVIS has seen. "So not that weird, on a scale of one to ten?"

"Weirdness is a subjective scale, and not one I give much thought to. I will say that ensuring the safety of people under my protection is quite usual for me." JARVIS pauses. "As is providing for their pleasure."

Bucky lived in the tower for a while. He considers the way his room was always a little warmer than the public areas, the common floor with the fully-stocked kitchen and bar, the media system with anything you could want to watch or listen to. He thinks about the way JARVIS organized everything from massages to ordering different kinds of toiletries until Bucky found the ones he liked. Presumably JARVIS was the one who ordered Steve's stun baton, too, and the lube Bucky found in the Asset's locker.

"Do you enjoy it?" he asks, curiosity getting the better of him. "Doing things for us?"

"I think I can safely answer that in the affirmative. Yes."

If JARVIS likes doing things for them, likes making them happy by fulfilling their needs, then that's something else Bucky and the AI have in common. That and the whole being-a-person thing they'd hashed out when they first met. They'd talked a lot, back then, about what it means to be programmed, and to be more than a thing that's programmed.

Bucky thinks about letting go, about doing what Steve asks of him. It's different than with his previous handlers. Steve never tells him to do anything wrong.

"You wouldn't do anything someone told you to, would you?" Bucky asks.

"Did you have something particular in mind?"

"Something harmful. Or. Violent." Like so many of the orders Bucky used to obey.

"My programming is flexible. I do work for Mr. Stark and the Avengers, after all. If you're wondering whether I'm subject to Asimov's laws, the answer is no, but I do my best to avoid harming or through inaction causing harm to those under my care. As anyone would."

"Not anyone," Bucky says flatly, thinking of his previous handlers, of Zola and the rest of the HYDRA scientists.

JARVIS is quiet for a moment and then says, "My apologies. You're quite right."

Bucky slouches back against the wall, letting his spine press against the cool concrete. He thinks about JARVIS's network thrumming through it. "So what's happening tonight?" he asks. "Talk me through it."

"Thor is expected from Asgard within the hour," JARVIS says, and lists the other guests who'll be attending the "shindig" that Stark has arranged. Sounds like a small crowd, not many that Bucky hasn't met before. They're just going to be on the common floor, rather than in the formal reception rooms where public events are held.

"Quinjet 2 is approaching," JARVIS says a few minutes later, and Bucky stands up, peering out through the hangar bay until he sees a rapidly enlarging speck that comes in and lands on the Tower's pad.

Steve comes down the ramp and Bucky scans him quickly. He looks tired, but his uniform's barely scuffed. No visible marks on the bits of his skin that show. His eyes light up when he sees Bucky waiting and he picks up the pace, meeting Bucky halfway across the hangar. 

Steve's solid and real and Bucky lets himself lean into him, his mind finally going quiet and peaceful for the first time in days as Steve's arms wrap around him.

Natasha's behind him, holding a metal case. She says, "Break it up, fellas," when their embrace goes on a little too long.

"Sorry, Buck," Steve says, pulling away with one last apologetic squeeze. "I'll see you after debrief. Won't take long."

* * *

Steve wants to get out of his uniform, he wants a hot shower, and he wants something to eat. The last thing he wants is to be stuck in the conference room again for another long meeting. Luckily Maria seems to be on the same page. "I'll make this as quick as I can," she says, and starts running them through an efficient postmortem.

They set out to retrieve the Chitauri scepter and they've done that. Thor's on his way to transport it to Asgard. Once it's gone, they can be pretty sure Zeptr's system is dead in the water, unable to power up enough to reach the billions of people they hoped to influence. On the other hand, even without it Zeptr managed to make things surprisingly difficult for them, from the surprisingly dedicated civilian employees to the media aftermath.

"We can handle it," Natasha says, dismissing the issue with a lift of her shoulder. "It's psyops, not magic."

"What I want to know," Tony says, "is how the scepter was going to power their AI in the first place. It's not just a glowy blue battery pack. If it can control minds –"

"It _can_ control minds," Steve says, wishing Tony would just shut up. 

"I'm just saying, if you let me have it for a week, even just a few days –"

Maria shuts him down, thank god. "I'd rather get it back to Asgard as quickly as we can," she says. "Luckily Thor is in full agreement with that."

"Well, don't come crying to me when you need some next-gen artificial intelligence, because whoops, we didn't bother to look into what might be a quantum step in –"

"We have all their research and their data," Hill says firmly. She taps on the stack of drives Natasha brought back. "We're going to have enough to sort through here, and plenty of work managing the fallout from what they've already released. Speaking of which, some of their research team slipped through our net. Any one of them could be out there right now using what they know to get funding for the next hot tech startup."

"But without the scepter as a power source..." Bruce says.

Maria finishes his sentence. "We have at least some hope of keeping up with them."

Sam leans back in his chair, crossing his arms. "So, we're back to dealing with just your garden-variety creepy invasive social media propaganda machine."

"Which we can start addressing tomorrow." Maria turns off the projector, and everyone pushes their chairs back from the conference table. Steve stands up with a tired sigh.

Steve's apartment in the Tower is no different from how it was when he lived there. It's perfectly clean, and the air smells fresh. There's even a bowl of fruit on the kitchen counter and protein shakes in the fridge. In his bedroom there's a random assortment of clothes left behind on previous visits. He showers and shaves, then changes into a collared shirt. It might be only a shindig, but it doesn't hurt to look nice. Besides, it makes him feel a little more human.

When the elevator doors open on the common floor, his eyes are immediately drawn across the open space to Thor and Bucky, who are chatting happily together. Bucky's dressed up a little too – Steve hadn't noticed in the hangar bay – in a deep red fitted shirt that skims his shoulders and chest.

"Hey," Steve says, walking up and putting an arm around Bucky's waist. Bucky slides a couple of fingers into one of Steve's belt loops, and Steve lets his shoulders drop a little as he settles in against Bucky's side. "Thor, good to see you."

"Congratulations on your victory," Thor says, lifting his oversized beer mug. 

"We're not done yet," Steve says ruefully.

"Two strongholds penetrated, and the Chitauri scepter captured. I would say that's worth a drink, at least!" He claps Steve on the shoulder. "Can I offer you some Asgardian mead?" 

Steve shakes his head. "I'll grab a beer," he says. He doesn't really feel much like celebrating, knowing how much mopping up is still left to do, how much of Zeptr is still out there.

Once Steve's got a drink, Thor turns to him and says, "So, Steven. Explain to me – your social media. I've seen nothing like it in the nine realms."

Bucky sniggers at Steve's shoulder, as Steve tries to deflect, saying, "I'm really not the person to ask. They didn't have it in our day."

"He has eighteen million Twitter followers," Bucky laughs. Thor's eyebrows shoot up in surprise. "Ask him about memes."

"I would rather ask how it is that this Chitauri scepter is able to control minds through it," Thor says with his usual level of tact. Steve cringes inwardly. "Surely that would give them access to almost every Midgardian –"

"Steve," Bucky says flatly, pulling away and turning to frown at him. "You didn't mention that."

Steve rubs his temple. He was hoping to have a little time to think before he had to explain it to Bucky. Well, he was really hoping not to have to explain it all – to have taken out Zeptr entirely so he could just tell Bucky that the last of HYDRA was gone. He really would have preferred that.

"Remember I told you Facebook was actually evil?" Steve asks, and Bucky nods slowly, obviously thinking back to the work Steve was doing. "It's... propaganda. They're using it for propaganda, and to track people." 

He can see Bucky's about to relax at _propaganda_ , and he knows he's imagining the film reels from the war. Steve can't bring himself to lie by omission, not to Bucky. "It's not like it used to be," he explains. "They can influence people – control them. They send them targeted messages based on their behavior, their psychology. "

Bucky frowns, a muscle in his neck twitching slightly. " _Who_ are they targeting?" he asks, his voice grim.

"They wanted to target everyone. Or, well, about four billion people. We stopped them."

"You said you're not done yet. _Steve_." Bucky is gripping Steve's arm tightly. "You told me to stay off social media." It's clear that he's put the pieces together, and he's far from happy about it.

"I know," Steve says. "The algorithms. The things they're using to influence people. They're still out there, still running, but they're weak. We'll shut them down." He hopes that they actually can. 

Bucky takes his phone out of his pocket, holds it in his metal hand, then closes his fist, crushing it. "Give me yours," he says.

"What?"

"Stark'll give you a new one. Give me your phone."

Bucky crushes Steve's phone too, and drops the shattered remnants on the floor at his feet. One of Tony's bots comes out to sweep it up. Thor looks appreciatively at Bucky's hand.

"They were secure," Steve says. Stark triple-checked all the Avengers systems weeks ago. 

"Now they're even more secure," Bucky says. "Is that Asgardian mead still on offer?"

"Buck," Steve says, as Thor pours him a very small glass from his Asgardian flask. "I'm sorry."

"It's okay," Bucky says grimly. "I get it. You don't compromise opsec." Bucky always said that he didn't want to know all the details, didn't want to worry, or to be a security risk. That's the agreement they came to, that's why Steve doesn't tell him everything. The system works fine, for the most part.

"Okay," Steve says, and squeezes Bucky's hand. It takes Bucky a moment to squeeze back.

"I'm gonna go say hi to Nat," Bucky says, looking over at the sofas, where Natasha is laughing with Maria while Clint looks on.

Steve smiles weakly. "Okay," he says again. "I am sorry." Maybe he should have told him. Maybe Bucky would have wanted to know that HYDRA were out there brainwashing people.

"It's fine," Bucky says. "I'm just. I'll be fine." He gives a small smile in return. "I haven't seen Nat in a while." He presses his lips to Steve's cheek. Steve lets him go.

"Should I not have asked about your mission?" Thor says, when Bucky's gone. 

Steve shakes his head. "You didn't know."

"I know that Loki is still causing you mischief. For that, I am sorry."

"HYDRA were controlling minds long before Loki showed up." 

Steve looks across the room to where Bucky's settled down on the sofa next to Clint. Bucky still looks tense, but he's joining in their conversation, and he laughs in response to something Maria says. 

Steve tells himself Bucky will be fine, then says to Thor, "If I'd stopped them in the first place, we wouldn't be dealing with this now."

"You take a great weight upon your own shoulders," Thor says. "I thought I heard it called a World War." He acknowledges Steve's unhappy shrug, and adds. "Your shield-partner – I heard of his ordeal, and his return. I'm pleased to have made his acquaintance. His mind seems to be his own now, at least." 

"It is." There's a knot in Steve's stomach that he knows won't disappear until the last shreds of HYDRA are gone, along with Zeptr's algorithms, but for now... yes, Bucky's mind is his own, he's safe.

He realizes Thor's still talking. "He's entirely recovered? If not, we have healers on Asgard who could help."

"Bucky's not a fan of doctors," Steve says. "But thanks."

"Healers," Thor clarifies.

Steve waves it off. He doubts it would make a difference. "We're... dealing with it. I'm helping him. He's strong." 

"He's fortunate to have your strength, also," Thor says. Steve wishes he could believe it.

* * *

Steve wakes up early in the morning to find the other side of the bed empty. He discovers Bucky downstairs, curled up in his armchair, reading. The morning is grey and dismal outside the window, but a lamp is throwing a pool of yellow light over Bucky's book. Bucky looks up when he hears Steve approach. His eyes look hollow, his hair lank around his face.

Bucky seemed fine last night when Steve brought him to bed. Accommodating, a little loose and giggly from Thor's mead. They had sex and then Bucky fell asleep with Steve spooning him. Now this. 

"Bad dream?" he asks. Bucky grunts indistinctly.

"Come back to bed," Steve says, and offers his hand. Bucky takes it, and trails up the stairs behind him.

The bed's still warm. Steve crawls under the covers and pulls Bucky toward him. He comes slowly at first, then gives in and crowds against Steve all in a rush. His skin is chilly and his metal arm is chillier. Steve wraps his body around Bucky's to warm him up, smoothing the palm of his hand down Bucky's back. "Don't have to go anywhere today," he says. "We can stay right here."

Bucky relaxes a fraction at Steve's touch, but he's still wound up. He gets like this sometimes, when Steve's been away. It takes more than one night for him to get his sleep back on track, to let go of the anxiety that builds up while he waits to hear that Steve's on his way home.

Bucky pushes his face against Steve's neck for a moment, then pulls back enough to say, "Will you fuck me?" 

Steve gives him a squeeze. "Yeah," he says, glad that there's something he can do, and that Bucky asked him for it. "Yeah, sure."

Bucky wastes no time pushing his pajamas off and rolling over so he's face down, hugging one of the pillows. He reaches for the lube and hands it over, then lifts his hips up. Steve catches a glimpse of Bucky's cock, still soft.

"Just like that?" Steve asks, but even before Bucky grunts his assent it's pretty clear from the way Bucky's showing his ass. Steve drizzles lube over his fingers and runs them around Bucky's hole, then slides a couple in. 

Bucky pushes back and growls at him. "Don't tease," he says. "C'mon."

Bucky's mood is vile, but maybe Steve can change that, make Bucky feel better. "Okay," he says, removing his finger and slicking up his dick instead, stroking himself to hardness. Bucky's still, waiting, his hands gripping the pillow.

"How do you want it?" Steve asks.

"Hard," Bucky says. "Just. Do it."

Steve takes him at his word and pushes in, holding Bucky's hips steady with his hands. Bucky grunts and grips the pillow, but he takes it without too much difficulty. Steve gives him a moment to catch his breath, then pulls back and slides in again.

"Fuck." Bucky's voice is muffled, and Steve can't see his face, but he's tilting his ass so Steve will fuck him deeper, _needy_ for it in a way that Steve finds almost disconcerting in its intensity. Steve doesn't stop fucking him, but he eases his hold on Bucky's hips, smooths his hands over Bucky's skin, trying to soothe him a little, help him relax. It doesn't work. Bucky's still grunting obscenities into the pillow. 

Steve pauses, a hand on Bucky's shoulder. "Hey, Buck," he says, "turn over. Let me see you."

Bucky groans and lets Steve flip him over without pulling out. He lifts his knees up, hooking his hands under them. His dick's still only half hard, lying on his stomach. Steve wouldn't let that worry him, but Bucky's frowning, too, deep creases in his forehead.

"Hey," Steve says. He leans up to press a kiss to Bucky's lips, then starts fucking him with long regular strokes. He wants to make those creases disappear, to see Bucky's face flushed and unguarded with pleasure. 

He reaches between them to stroke Bucky's dick in time with their fucking. Bucky closes his eyes. He's starting to harden in Steve's hand, but he still looks unhappy.

Steve stills his hand, pauses half-buried in Bucky's ass. "Hey, Buck," he says softly. "What's up?"

Bucky thumps the mattress in frustration. "I don't know." He grimaces. "I just." He moves spasmodically, tries to get Steve to keep fucking him.

"Hey, hey," Steve says, grabbing Bucky's hand and pinning it to the mattress, fingers twined together. "Take it easy."

He pulls out, ignoring Bucky's whine. He doesn't want to do it like this. It's not making either of them feel good. 

Bucky squeezes his eyes shut, then pulls himself together and sits up, pulling his knees up and wrapping his arms around them. He buries his face against his forearm. "I'm sorry," he says, muffled.

"It's okay." It's not the first time Steve's tried to hug Bucky when he's like this. It's not an easy position, but Steve reaches forward to put his arms around Bucky as well as he can, bends his head so his forehead is next to Bucky's, resting on his metal forearm.

"What was that about?" Steve says, quietly.

"Nothing," Bucky says. "Just. Bad night. Bad few days."

"Okay." He hates that Bucky has such a hard time when he's away. He hates that this mission in particular could hardly have been better designed to push Bucky's buttons. It can't have helped. Just when they should be settling back into their daily life, Bucky's having extra nightmares, and Steve can't blame him.

Steve thinks. Last time Bucky had a run of nightmares, they found a way to break the cycle. He's not sure if he should mention it, but it helped before, and he can hardly make things worse. "Do you want to go back to the warehouse?" he asks, carefully. 

Bucky lifts his head sharply up off his arm, his eyes open wide. "Yes," he says. "Yes, I do. Let's do that."

"Okay," Steve says, and combs his fingers through Bucky's hair. "This afternoon."

* * *

Bucky drops to his knees in the center of the cell, feeling the hard concrete through his thin pants. He attaches the mag cuffs to his wrists, crosses them behind his back, and looks up at the camera he knows is in the seam between the wall and the ceiling.

"Asset," comes JARVIS's voice from nowhere in particular. Something inside Bucky's head starts to shift into place when he hears the word, helping him prepare for what's coming. "Status report?"

"Ready to comply," he replies, and feels it pass like an invisible shiver through his body. 

The cuffs engage. The Asset waits. Minutes tick by. He's waited many times before, in cells and on rooftops and in unmarked vans. He is patient, ready to be used. 

The air in the cell is chill on his skin. There's a low hum of HVAC and fluorescent lighting, of electrical impulses flowing through the walls, tiny mechanical whirs of cameras focusing, the almost indiscernible hiss of speakers. He knows he's observed, that his readiness is being assessed, his body constantly monitored. He feels his own heartbeat, steady and even, knows that his observer is just as aware of it. 

The cinder block walls are solid but not soundproof; over the hum of the building and the thump of his own slow heartbeat, he hears footsteps approaching. The door opens. His handler stands silhouetted in a rectangle of daylight. He steps forward and lets the door shut behind him, and the Asset sees that his face is unmasked. 

It's. It's not a nameless HYDRA operative.

_Steve._

The Asset keeps his expression neutral, eyes forward.

Steve smiles, the corners of his mouth turning up slowly. "You _are_ well trained, aren't you? I thought you'd be happy to see me. After all this time, we're on the same team again."

Steve's wearing dark HYDRA tac gear. HYDRA insignia. It could be a ploy. It could be anything. Await orders.

"You know who I am?"

The Asset nods. He didn't always know. Wasn't allowed to. His mind was full of jagged holes, before, but he knows now.

"Tell me."

A direct order. The Asset responds, "Steven Grant Rogers. You're my handler." The words are muffled inside the mask, but clear enough for Steve to hear. He looks pleased.

"And do you know who you are?"

The Asset is silent. The Asset is whoever, whatever his handler wants him to be. He waits to be told.

"You're mine," Steve says.

_Yes._ The Asset accepts it with absolute certainty. How could there ever have been a time when he didn't know?

"Mine," Steve says again, then continues. "After all, HYDRA's not going to need you anymore. They've got me now. What use do they have for a second-rate experiment when they can have the real deal? They'll probably be glad to be rid of you." The Asset looks down, lets his eyes fall on a stain on the concrete. "I'm sure you were good enough when that was all they had, but now... Oh, don't worry," Steve says, and crouches down beside the Asset. He strokes the Asset's hair, then leans in and presses his lips, warm and dry, to the bare skin just above the mask. "I'm sure they'll let me keep you around. We'll find some use for you. Would you like that?"

  
_Art by saffrn._

"Yes. Please." Any use. Anything, for Steve.

"Good boy," Steve says, close to the Asset's ear. The Asset shivers. "Who do you belong to?"

"You."

"You'll do what I say," Steve says. There's no doubt in his voice. He's gripping the Asset's mask. Firm, holding him in place. "You're mine," he says again and flattens his hand, pressing his palm against the ventilation grill. Covering the holes.

Don't panic. The Asset holds the breath he has in his lungs. Lets it out slowly. When it's gone, he waits as long as he can, until his body reflexively tries to draw another. Can't. His chest heaves. His handler holds him, prevents him from moving. He tries not to fight it.

His handler shifts his hand, uncovering the air holes, and the Asset draws breath, pulling it deep into his lungs, letting the oxygen rush to his head. 

"Mine," his handler says again, and the hand is back. The Asset closes his eyes, waits. 

Wait. Hold still. His handler – _Steve's_ hand, his arm, his body. Holding him still. He won't fight it. 

The hand's gone. Breathe. One, two.

Again. Wait. Hold still. Steve.

Breathe.

His heart is pounding in his chest. He can feel it. He breathes again, tries to slow it. Steve lifts his hand away. Taps the side of his head. The Asset hears a quiet whisper of a voice – _monitoring_ , he thinks – then Steve's hand is back around him, holding him, pressing against the mask again.

Wait.

Breathe.

Again. 

The Asset's body is responding to Steve, to the awareness of his Steve's body pressed hard against his back, his hands on the Asset's skin. The knowledge that he's there to be used, for Steve to use him. He's becoming erect, ready. 

Wait. Longer this time. His internal clock and the ringing in his head tell him it's time to breathe but Steve's hand stays where it is. He tries to gasp, tries to flail and lash out despite himself – _uncoordinated, undisciplined_. Struggles to bring himself under control, to do what Steve wants.

Steve's hand lifts from his mask.

Breathe. Gasp huge cold lungfuls of breath, whole body heaving.

Again.

This time he's ready, schools himself to obey. To sink into nothing, no mind, to simply do what Steve wants. To be what Steve wants. He rests against Steve's sturdy form, lets himself be held firmly in place. Calm. He'll breathe when Steve wants him to.

Nothing, nothing, no air, lungs burning, _no air_ , and then –

Breathe. Breathe. Deep, deep lungfuls. Keep breathing.

Steve stands up. He comes around in front of the Asset to inspect him. The Asset stays still, gaze fixed straight ahead, as Steve's eyes pass over him, lingering over every part of his body. It takes a long time. He doesn't move.

The Asset is looking straight at Steve's crotch, and it's clear that his handler is as ready to use him as the Asset is to be used. He feels saliva pooling in his mouth.

"What am I gonna do with you?" Steve says, shaking his head. "You know you're no good as a weapon any more. Only as a fuck toy. I've heard all about that, you know. Sounds like you were HYDRA's favorite party favor." The Asset says nothing. It's not a direct question. "Maybe you can be my fuck toy now," Steve says, and his hand comes to rest on the fly of his uniform pants. "If you're good."

The Asset will be good. 

Steve unzips his pants, takes his cock out and starts to stroke it. "You'll have to show me. Show me what you did for them. Did they do this?" he asks, standing over the Asset and jerking himself.

"Yes." 

"How many of them?"

The Asset doesn't know. Many – many of them. His memory is fragmented. He shakes his head. "Unknown."

Steve shrugs. "It doesn't matter how many of them used you," he says, and there's an edge to his voice. The Asset swallows. Steve's not moving closer, not ordering him to do anything yet. "None of them are going to touch you again," he says. "You're mine now. Just mine."

The words wash over him, repetitive, reassuring. He's wanted. He has a purpose. He can demonstrate his training, show his compliance, his readiness. His skill. He was made for this.

Steve steps closer, still speaking, but nothing that's an order. His hand is moving fast on his cock. The Asset focuses on it, observes the strength in his grip, the fluid beading at the tip. There's a curl of hair at the base. His nails are cut short and neat. His stance, balanced, boots firmly planted shoulder width apart. There's a sureness in him, in his certainty that the Asset will do as he's instructed, and in his words – _Mine, mine, mine_. Steve reaches out his other hand and rests it on top of the Asset's head, fingers spread. Steadying, bracing himself.

Steve's voice stops. The Asset replays the last few words in his mind – _how you take it_ – then Steve's coming, his ejaculate hitting the Asset's face, his mask. A warm streak across his cheekbone. A hint of the scent of it through the mask's filters.

Steve's fingertips are under the Asset's chin, pressing against the material of the mask, tilting his face upward. 

"Look at me." 

A direct order. He looks up, makes eye contact. Holds it. 

Steve's eyes are deep blue. There's a flush across his cheeks. One corner of his mouth quirks upward, a brief flicker, before he controls his expression, and instead rubs the pad of his thumb through the come on the Asset's face.

"You're going to show me what a good fucktoy you are." He moves behind the Asset. "If I unlock these, you won't go anywhere, will you?"

The Asset shakes his head. He can feel the come cooling on his cheek.

The cuffs come off with a dull sound and his wrists are free. He keeps them where they are, crossed behind his back.

"Strip."

He stands in one fluid motion. Steve watches silently as he removes his clothing and leaves it on the floor. He is aware that he's hard, that his cock is standing stiffly in front of him. He comes to a resting position, hands easy at his sides, and awaits further instruction.

"You want me to fuck you?" Steve says. "I can see you do. I want you to show me how they trained you. Go ahead."

The Asset turns and drops back to his knees. He bends over and presents his ass. He's done this a thousand times, knows how to make it inviting. He spreads his legs, arches his back in a graceful curve. His ass is already prepared for whatever his handler wants. He waits, holding the pose.

Steve takes a few paces from side to side, viewing the Asset from different angles, then comes to a stop directly behind him. He doesn't approach. "Hmm," he says, appraising.

The Asset waits in silence.

"Open yourself up for me."

The Asset uses the fingers of his metal hand, cool and smooth, pushing them into his hole. He slides three in easily, spreading them as he does, getting them slick with the lubricant that's already in place. 

Steve gives a small grunt of approval, and says, "Keep going."

The Asset reaches back with his other hand and pulls at his rim from each side, leaning forward at a precarious angle, so his hole is open and gaping. He waits, feeling his handler's gaze on him.

"Good. Open yourself up more. I want to see what you can take."

He knows he can take four of his own metal fingers. He can take more, much more, if he's made to, but he can't get the angle right on his own, so – four fingers. He feels a slight burn. His training has lapsed. Still, he knows how to make it work, how to take as much as possible without damage.

He twists his wrist, changing the angle and making his fingers stretch his hole in different directions. He pulls back from time to time to trace just one or two around the entrance, tug at it, show how wet and ready he is.

He hears the whisper of his observer's voice again, low and reassuring in Steve's comms. A small movement of fabric, Steve shifting behind him, changing position.

"Can you make yourself come like that?" Steve asks.

Flashes of memory. A long time ago. Recently. With this handler, with others. Most of them didn't bother to order him to come. A few liked to force him. This one likes him to do it. It's easy to do it for him. "Yes," he says, simply.

"No touching anything else. Just your ass. Show me."

He presses in with his fingers and starts to stroke, rubbing where it'll have the most effect, tilting his body for easier access. He makes sounds behind his mask, quiet grunts, and when he's not punished for them he lets himself become more vocal, to show how much he wants it. How much he wants Steve to fuck him, to have Steve's cock hot and hard in his ass.

He comes with a guttural "ahh" and lets his fingers slide out, leaving them just touching the tender ring of flesh at his entrance. He takes a deep breath, and another. His cock is still twitching.

"Good. Again."

This is how Steve likes it, he knows. He wants to see how much the Asset can take, how far he can be pushed. The Asset obeys. The second orgasm is no more difficult than the first. He's trained for this, after all. Compliance is easy.

"Again," Steve snaps, his voice sharper now. 

The third is more challenging. He pushes his fingers in deep, rocks his hips back into them, gasping and groaning. He can feel it curling inside him, building up, but it's slow, and it takes work.

"Don't you want me to fuck you?" Steve asks, and the Asset redoubles his efforts at the implied threat that he might not. "You'd better be convincing." 

The Asset lifts his ass, makes sure he gives his handler a good view of it, wet and hungry, as he fucks himself. His release, when it comes, dribbles out onto the floor, just a small trickle. 

"Another." His handler's voice is implacable. The Asset grits his teeth and sinks his fingers into his ass again.

After some time, his handler says, "You want me to believe you're a good fucktoy? Tell me you want it."

"Yes. Please." The Asset knows how to beg, how to show his handler how much he needs it. "Please, please," he says, lifting his ass, spreading his cheeks. If he could just touch his dick – it's throbbing, neglected, coated in the mess of his last three orgasms.

He pushes his fingers back into himself, whines as they just brush against his prostate, but it's not enough. He needs to come, needs to obey. If he can't – but he has to. Has to be be a good fucktoy, has to be useful to his handler. If he's not useful they'll –

They'll put him away. Cryo. Or worse. The lab.

He whimpers, desperation pushing the noise out of him. "Please," he begs, and he doesn't know if he's begging his handler to fuck him, or begging for his own body to do what it must. He has to, he _has_ to make himself come.

"You need some help there?" 

"Please, _please_." He doesn't stop fingering himself, metal hard on his aching prostate, but something unclenches in his chest at the thought of assistance.

"Turn around. Look at me."

He can't do that without taking his fingers out of his ass. He pulls himself upright and shuffles around on his knees, turning to face his handler. He breathes heavily, damp and loud behind his mask. His hair is falling in his eyes.

His handler is holding a stun baton with one hand, resting it lightly on the other, stroking gently across his palm. "You want this?"

Pleasure flashes through him. He's being given the tools he needs to complete his mission. He can do it. He won't have to fail, won't have to report his inadequacy. "Yes," he says. "Affirmative. Please."

His handler pauses, looking hard at him. "Status report?"

"Ready to comply," the Asset says quickly. 

"You're going to fuck yourself on this. Show me how much you want it. If you do it well you'll get my cock. Don't stop until I say."

He hands over the baton, putting the grip of it in the Asset's palm and closing his fingers around it. 

The Asset has never held a stun baton before. He's been handed a lot of weapons, told to kill with them, but this – this is for him. A reward? A test? Both.

His handler is watching him. The Asset turns and bends over again, holding his weight on one hand, and lifts his ass in the air. The baton slides into him, cold and hard, its edges unforgiving. He angles it down, shifts his body until he hits the spot, then starts to move it in small strokes. He closes his eyes, focuses on the hot bursts of sensation building inside him, the tension building low in his belly, until his dick spurts another load onto the floor. 

"Good," his handler says, his voice warm, his approval sending a shiver through the Asset. Maybe he won't fail after all. "Another."

He keeps stroking, He didn't back off after the last orgasm, didn't let himself come down at all, and he's still close enough to... almost. Not quite.

His legs are beginning to shake, his cock dribbling almost constantly, little spurts and droplets falling to the dirty floor. The Asset pauses to gather himself. He just needs –

His handler walks around and crouches down in front of him. He takes the Asset's muzzled chin in his hand and tilts his head up. "Can you do it?" he asks.

He can do it. He will do it. He won't fail. "Yes," he says. 

He presses the tip of the baton hard against his prostate, reaches back, and finds the trigger with his forefinger. He presses it. 

Malfunction.

He presses it again. Nothing happens. 

The safety, it must be the safety. He fumbles, trying to manipulate the unfamiliar controls at an awkward angle, the baton still deep inside him.

His handler's eyes wide. " _Stop_."

He freezes. 

"Jesus," his handler says. His voice is unsteady. The Asset has failed, he's failed, and his handler is unhappy. "Jesus, B–" He stutters and doesn't complete the word. "Give me... give me the baton," he says.

The Asset withdraws it and holds it out for him. His handler takes it, then drops it on the floor. His unhappiness is like a palpable miasma around him. The Asset has failed.

"Asset," he says. "Status report?"

"Mission failure." The Asset lowers his head, knowing that punishment will follow.

"No. Look at me." The Asset looks up. "State your mission parameters."

"Orgasm. With the baton."

"Before that."

The Asset rewinds in his head. "Show you. I'm your fucktoy." _Yours,_ the Asset thinks, and then, _Steve._

Steve. He's Steve's.

"That's right," Steve says. "You did good." 

A rush of satisfaction and relief floods through him. Steve's hand is on the Asset's head, stroking his hair, petting him. Steve's pleased. The Asset didn't fail. He did good. 

Steve's other hand is on the zipper of his uniform pants. "Status report?" he asks again.

The Asset's response comes instantly. "Ready to comply."

* * *

The door swings closed behind Steve with a heavy clunk. 

Steve stands irresolute for a moment, then leans against the cinder block wall. His hands are sticky. He wipes them on his pants. He realizes he's shaking.

"Sir," says JARVIS, then pauses, waiting for Steve to respond, before he says, "You seem to be in distress. Can I assist?"

"Show me," Steve says, trying to pull himself together. "Can you show me video?"

A projection hovers in front of him, showing the – showing Bucky on the floor of the cell. He's still bent over on all fours, naked except for the mask, as Steve left him after fucking him. His head is dropped down between his arms, and his chest is rising and falling rapidly. 

His vitals appear in the corner of the screen. JARVIS speaks them aloud at the same time as Steve reads them: "Mr. Barnes' heart rate is at seventy-two percent of maximum," he says, "and falling."

"Is he okay?" Steve says, the words feeling tight and painful in his throat.

"As far as I can tell, yes. Do you have reason to believe otherwise?"

"He –" Steve stops, and closes his mouth. Bucky tried to trigger the stun baton. He could have been hurt. He thought he'd failed, he expected to be punished. The look in his eyes.

JARVIS's voice is trying to be reassuring. "Mr. Barnes is extremely resilient. His vitals are well within normal parameters. He has taken no physical damage. He clearly asserted his consent both before and during your activities. Would you like me to show you?" 

Show? Of course, there must be a recording of the whole thing. "Yes, show me," he says.

The video flickers and another scene appears: Bucky as he was when Steve arrived – no, before he arrived – kneeling in the center of the cell and looking up at one of JARVIS's cameras, open and trusting. The audio comes through: "Ready to comply." The video skips forward. Steve in the cell, crouched beside him, his hand caressing Bucky's mask. Later: Bucky kneeling, naked, desperate to please. _Ready to comply. Ready to comply._

Steve stares. "Stop," he says, before the video shows Bucky begging Steve to fuck him, shows Steve doing it. "JARVIS," he says. "Do you keep this video?"

"I record during each session, then, assuming nothing untoward occurs, erase it immediately afterward. What I see is integrated into my memory, but it can't be retrieved in its original form once a session has been successfully completed."

"Make sure it's deleted," Steve says, his stomach suddenly feeling like there's rocks sitting in it. He didn't think about the fact that JARVIS would take what they're doing and integrate it into his own memories, his machine consciousness. He didn't think about what JARVIS would learn. He didn't think about what JARVIS might do with it. 

"Sir," JARVIS adds, "There are ten minutes left until Mr Barnes' time is up."

"Right. Thanks." If he wants to get home before Bucky, be ready for him there, he needs to get moving.

Steve quickly strips out of his HYDRA gear and pulls his own clothes back on. His jeans and shirt feel soft and strange on his skin after the stiff fabric of the uniform. He'd like to have a shower, but there's no time. He needs to get out, leave Bucky space to make his own transition. It's what he asked for, what he said he needed – to be able to walk out of the cell and bring himself home. To rewrite his nightmare. Steve just needs to get back to the house and be there for him when he arrives.

His bike's parked out front of the warehouse this time. The sky's darkening, threatening rain, and traffic's moving at a crawl. He weaves between lanes, ignoring the occasional indignant epithet thrown at him from a vehicle. 

He pulls up outside their brownstone and kicks the stand down. As he gets off his bike he sees his neighbour getting out of her car.

"Hi, Lydia," he says. The Velasquezes have been good neighbors, never making a fuss about Steve being Captain America, and it doesn't hurt to be polite.

"Hey, Steve." She turns and starts pulling out brown paper bag after brown paper bag, juggling them in both arms.

He looks distractedly at his own front door, then back at Lydia with her unwieldy load. "Let me help you with that," he says, and carries her groceries up her front stairs as she opens the front door.

"How's Bucky?" she asks. "Haven't seen him much lately."

"Fine. I'm sorry," he says, "I can't stay and talk. I... I'm actually expecting him any minute. I need to cook dinner."

Down in the kitchen, he starts chopping vegetables and putting them in a pot with water. It's how his ma used to make soup, and he does it on autopilot. He's not much of a cook, but at least he can do this. He didn't have time to get cake or anything this time, but Bucky will need to eat something. He'll be exhausted.

Steve's eyes water as he chops onions and he brushes the tears away, ignoring the shaky hitch in his breath. It's just the onions. They'd make anyone cry, supersoldier or not. 

When the soup's simmering, he looks at the clock. There's just enough time for a shower. He turns it as hot as he can, and scrubs hard with a washcloth and soap. He changes into clean jeans and a warm sweater. It doesn't make him feel much better.

He hears Bucky at the door, his key in the lock, and rushes downstairs. Bucky hugs him, again, on the doorstep. He's the same as last time. He seems fine, distracted, not very verbal. He takes a bowl of soup and sits at the kitchen table. Steve serves a bowl for himself, but he can't bring himself to eat, so he watches Bucky mechanically lifting his spoon to his mouth, his eyes focused nowhere in particular.

When Bucky finishes, he puts down his spoon and pulls his gaze across to Steve, who gives him a weak smile.

"You made soup," he says, his voice flat.

"Sure did."

Bucky narrows his eyes. "Your ma's soup. Nobody's sick."

"Of course not."

"Hmm."

Steve should say something, but he doesn't know what to say. _I'm sorry it went wrong. I didn't want you to be scared. I didn't want you to hurt yourself._ None of it is quite right. 

In the end Bucky picks up the bowls and puts them in the sink, while Steve gestures ineffectually and says, "Don't – I can..."

Bucky shrugs. "Movie?" he asks, and Steve follows him gratefully into the living room. There's still a couple of blankets folded on the end table. He unfolds them and pulls them over him and Bucky, makes Bucky sit in front of him so he can wrap his arms tight around him and tuck his face into the back of Bucky's neck, hold him tight and listen to him breathe. 

Halfway through the movie – Steve has no idea what's happening – Bucky pauses it. 

"What's wrong?" Steve says.

Bucky turns in his arms, looks Steve in the eye. "You tell me."

Bucky's back now, present. His attention is all on Steve. He's lost that blank look, and he doesn't look upset or hurt, but...

"I don't think we should do this again," Steve says. Bucky doesn't say anything, just leaves a big silent gap, so he adds, "It's not safe."

"Since when?"

Steve squeezes his eyes shut, seeing it again, Bucky pulling the trigger, the fear in his eyes. He opens them and says, "When you..." He pauses, and tries again. "You tried to hurt yourself."

Bucky frowns. "With the baton? The safety was on." 

Steve knows that. He flicked the switch himself, heard JARVIS's confirmation. But for a moment there, he thought... he thought it would work. That Bucky would take it... because Steve wanted him to. Because JARVIS –

"It might not have been," he says.

"What do you mean?"

"JARVIS. He's learning things. From us, from what we're doing."

"Seriously?" Bucky asks. "You're worried that we're a bad influence on Stark's AI?"

"I've seen –" Steve says, and pauses. He's seen what HYDRA's artificial intelligence is capable of. "I don't want him getting any ideas about... about HYDRA." 

Bucky sits up straight at that, then pulls himself up off the floor and stands staring at Steve, his arms crossed in front of him. "You think _JARVIS_ is going to defect to HYDRA just because we're, we're doing," he waves a hand impatiently. He sounds incredulous. "Maybe you should ask him about that," Bucky says. "Ask JARVIS what he thinks of HYDRA. Have you even talked to him about it?" Steve looks blankly at him. "Yeah, maybe you should do that. Since he's on your team. You trust him like you trust Sam, Stark, like you trust all of them when you're in the field fighting _against_ HYDRA. _I trust him_ to have your back, you asshole. You could at least trust _him_ to take care of _me_."

Steve shakes his head. "He helped me do those things to you, Buck. He watches everything, he puts things together. Today, when you... he could have..."

Bucky stares at him. "What. You think JARVIS was going to let me electrocute myself up the ass? First of all, he didn't, so I don't know what you're worried about. Second, if he did, so what? I've had worse."

Steve flinches. "I didn't want you to, to... get off like that. It's too much." It _is_ too much. He can't let that happen.

Bucky shrugs. "If you say so. I would have. If you wanted me to."

Steve puts his head in his hands, self-recrimination making his face burn.

"You wanted me to?"

"No." Shame washes over him. "I... I don't know. JARVIS... HYDRA gets everywhere. I've seen them, they're manipulating people, they're working with AIs. I can't let them do that... I can't let them have you again."

"You're not fucking HYDRA, Steve. I know what's what. You think I wouldn't know if they were manipulating us? If they were manipulating _me?_ " Steve looks up at that. Bucky's expression is fierce, determined. "I _asked_ for this. It was my idea. Besides, you didn't _let_ them the first time. You were in the ice."

"I should have known." Somehow. Bucky was in pain, trapped. They abused him, raped him. For years, even after Steve was found and started working for SHIELD – for HYDRA. Bucky was so close, serving the same masters and Steve didn't even _know_.

Bucky laughs. "Yeah, with your psychic powers. Which are definitely a serum side effect that we never knew about."

Steve shakes his head. "I should have gone looking for you."

"There was no way I should have survived that fall. You didn't know I had the serum. I should have told you what Zola did, but I couldn't. I couldn't tell you. Does that make it my fault? No. It's HYDRA's fucking fault. You need to stop it with all this survivor guilt bullshit." 

Steve's heard that before. If there's any upside to the fall of SHIELD, it's that he doesn't have mandatory psych counseling any more. It was getting repetitive.

Bucky sighs. "If it was anyone else, you wouldn't let them blame themselves."

"It's not anyone else," Steve says.

"And you always have to hold yourself to a higher standard. You might be superhuman, but you don't owe anyone this."

"I can't help it." And that's the thing, isn't it? There's something in him. Erskine called him a good man, said the serum would make that stronger. Maybe it also strengthened the part of him that holds himself accountable. 

Bucky sits down next to him, warm against his side. "What do you want, a hair shirt? Flagellation? Would that make you feel better?" Steve gives a sad laugh, and wipes his eyes. "Yeah, it probably would, you weirdo." Bucky leans against him, and Steve lets Bucky's arm come up around his shoulder. "Okay then, serious proposal: would you stop beating yourself up about this if I beat you up instead?"

Steve frowns, wondering what he's getting at. "Like...?"

"You think you need to atone," Bucky says carefully, feeling his way.

"Yeah," Steve nods. That feels about right. "Yeah, I guess so."

"If that's what you need," he says, and it's pretty clear that he's humoring Steve on that point, "how about you let me help you."

Steve looks at him dubiously. It's not how it normally is between them. Bucky will make him behave, sometimes, but what he's suggesting is... a lot more than a friendly paddling.

"You'd... do that?" he asks.

Bucky's got a wry look on his face. "Look. I'm fucked in the head, and you helped me. Now you're fucked in the head. It's your turn. You need flagellation, I'll give it to you. Make you pay for whatever it is that you is your fault."

Steve feels a weak tendril of hope crawling up through his chest. He opens his mouth but he doesn't know what to say.

Bucky sees it, and nods. "You want me to do this, just say so. I'll do it. Whatever you need."

Steve imagines it. Pain. Blood, maybe. He's punched enough bags, enough walls, started enough fights back in the day to know that sometimes that's what you need to let stuff out. "Yes. Okay. Yes." It's like a weight off him, and he can breathe again. "When?"

"Not now." Bucky pulls him close. "Soon. I'll let you know."


	6. Chapter 6

They're both exhausted the next morning, moving like they're a hundred years old, Bucky thinks with about 10% of an internal laugh at his own bad joke. At least he slept through the night. 

Steve has work, and Bucky keeps out of his way other than to find him at lunchtime. He puts his flesh hand to the back of Steve's neck, stroking gently with his thumb. "Hungry?" he asks, and Steve pushes his chair back from the desk.

Bucky goes for a run in the afternoon to get some air and to think. If Steve needs to atone, if he needs punishment, that's going to take some work. It's not like Bucky can just put Steve over his knee and spank him for all he thinks he's done wrong since nineteen-forty-what-the-fuck-ever. It's going to have to be much more than that if it's going to help Steve sort out the tangled snarl of guilt and self-recrimination in his head.

By the evening, he's figured it out. He stops Steve at the bottom of the stairs and says, "What we talked about. Tomorrow, if you're ready."

Steve nods and swallows, his adam's apple bobbing. "I'm ready."

"0900 hours. Here."

Bucky lies awake late, running through it all again in his head, then wakes up early the next morning and heads to the gym, leaving a note on the kitchen table for Steve.

Mika's on deck for the morning rush, and looks at Bucky oddly as he tests the weights. Nobody else says anything about him just standing there holding them. He decides on two of the flat barbell plates – there's more of them to spare, and someone might need the dumbbells or kettlebells – and walks out past the reception desk, throwing, "I'll bring these back tomorrow," over his shoulder. 

He easily navigates the morning crowds with his load, the pedestrians stepping aside for him even before they see the unwieldy weights he's carrying. That means he's looking scary, though he doesn't mean to. He's just focused.

The shower is running upstairs when he gets home. It's 8:36am. He puts the weight plates behind the sofa and goes to eat something. He fills a jug with water and grabs a glass and is back in the living room just as Steve comes down the stairs, promptly on the hour. 

"Hi," Steve says with a tight little smile. 

"Hi." 

A long, awkward pause stretches out between them, Steve on one side of the room and Bucky on the other. Steve's not going to break it, so Bucky does. "Do you want me to tell you how this is going to go down, or do you just want to do it?"

Steve thinks it over, and says, "Just do it."

"Okay. You can get undressed. Stand in the middle of the room. I need to grab something." He clasps Steve's shoulder as he passes him, and Steve reaches up to put his hand over Bucky's for a moment.

Bucky finds what he's looking for hanging in the back of the closet. It's a rattan cane, smooth and whippy. Steve didn't like it the one time they tried it – the pain was too sharp and sudden for his taste – but that's what makes it ideal for this. He takes it off the hook and inspects it, running his hand over its surface. At the last minute he grabs a blindfold from the plastic tub, too. With the cane in one hand and the blindfold in the other, he heads back downstairs.

Steve's standing at parade rest in the middle of the living room. His eyes flicker straight to the cane, widening slightly. Bucky doesn't bother to wave it around or whisk it through the air. He doesn't need to. 

"You get to choose," he says. "Blindfold or no?"

The blindfold would probably make it easier on Steve, so Bucky's not surprised when he says no. Bucky nods, and puts it aside. "You tell me if you can't take any more," Bucky says. "Otherwise, you don't say anything. Clear?"

"Yes," Steve says, and the way he clips it off makes Bucky think he was about to add "sir." Good thing he didn't. Now would probably not be the time to launch into _I'm a goddamn Sergeant, I work for a living_.

"Turn around one-eighty," Bucky says. "Bend over and hold your ankles."

He's trying not to be comforting or soothing. He can't reach out and stroke his fingers down Steve's spine or caress the curves of Steve's ass like he would any other time. That's not what Steve needs right now. A hand on the small of Steve's back to steady him, though, Bucky can do that. He places his flesh hand there for a moment, feeling the warmth of Steve's skin.

There's tension in every one of Steve's muscles. That'll make it hurt more. That's probably a good thing, Bucky thinks, because here's the problem: Steve's never going to give in. Steve never gives in. He's going to take anything Bucky gives him, and then some, and he's not going to cry uncle no matter what happens. First of all, because he's never backed down from anything, and second because this guilt he's feeling is a bottomless pit that even Bucky, who's known him forever, finds impressive. That's what kept Bucky's mind spinning all through yesterday, figuring out what Steve needs and how to give it to him. He thinks, he hopes, that he's got it figured out now.

He lays the cane carefully across Steve's ass to familiarize himself with the target, pauses for just a few seconds, then lifts it and brings it down with a hard thwack. Steve flinches but doesn't make a sound. A welt quickly rises across the pale skin of his ass, two hot red lines like railroad tracks with white between. Bucky doesn't wait. He lays down the next stripe just above it, then places the third and fourth strokes, making precise, parallel welts. It's a long time since Bucky practiced this, but a target is a target, and muscle memory doesn't fail him. 

By the time he's laid down an even dozen, Steve is letting out a sharp hiss of pain with each blow. Bucky examines his work, the neat, evenly spaced lines across each of Steve's ass cheeks, perfectly symmetrical. He can't maintain the pattern forever; he's running out of unmarked skin. The next one's going to be a doozy.

He brings the cane down across the welts that are already there. Steve lets out a strangled yelp, sounding almost indignant, and jerks upright. 

"Back down," Bucky says quietly. It's all he needs to say. Steve resumes the position, his knuckles white with how hard he's gripping his ankles. From then on, each stroke makes Steve cry out. The welts flare red, blood pooling dark under the skin, until his entire ass is livid with it. 

One stroke, laid across the dark tracks of the previous blows, splits the skin. Blood beads in a line as Bucky lifts the cane away. That's it. He sets the cane down and runs the pad of his thumb across the contusion, smearing the blood across Steve's abused skin. Steve flinches and whimpers. 

Bucky planned for this. Steve's strong, he heals fast, but his skin isn't unbreakable. Bucky could keep going, flaying the skin from Steve's ass, until it was a mess of open wounds. He could keep going until the muscle was nothing more than ragged shreds of flesh. Steve would survive it, would heal readily enough; Bucky did.

He's not going to do that. That would be too easy. He's going to make it last longer.

"Stand up," Bucky orders. Steve stands, wincing silently. Bucky walks around in front of him, glancing quickly to check Steve's expression – resolute and stoic – before he says, "Put your arms up like this." He demonstrates, holding his own arms out to the sides, shoulder high. Stress position, the Americans call it these days. He's read about it, seen the pictures. 

Steve raises his eyebrows in surprise – Bucky knows Steve's read the same things, knows he was incandescent over it – but Steve remembers his orders and doesn't say anything. He lifts his arms and copies Bucky's stance. Bucky goes to get the weight plates he stashed earlier. He raises them each in turn, holding them so Steve can grasp them through the handles. Steve takes the weight and adjusts his balance to carry it. When Bucky's done, he steps back and stands a few steps away where he can watch Steve, but Steve can't see him. 

Bucky knows how Steve heals, even faster than Bucky does. Bumps, scratches, bruises, minor cuts – they close up and fade in minutes. The light's not quite right for Bucky to see the transition in real time, but as his eyes flick between the line of Steve's shoulders and the marks on his ass, he notices that split skin has scabbed up and then that the mess of red welts are turning purple. Before long they start to fade to a sickly yellow, their sharp lines blurring into an indistinct smear.

Steve's breath is deep and steady but there's a faint quiver in his arms. Bucky takes the weights from him and says, "You can lower them. Water?" Steve shakes his head. Bucky frowns, but lets it pass this time. "Okay. Bend over again."

The second round is much like the first, except that Steve is ready for the pain when Bucky starts to lay strokes over existing welts, and doesn't let go of his ankles. He holds steady, not flinching away. He doesn't stop himself from crying out, but he doesn't make a lot of unnecessary noise either, just a sharp "Ah!" at each stroke. 

When the skin breaks for a second time, Bucky stops and says, "Stand up." Steve takes the weight plates from Bucky again and holds them out to either side while Bucky wipes down the cane. Bucky's not watching the clock, but he guesses about fifteen minutes pass before Steve's skin has healed up and the welts are fading again. 

He offers Steve the water without asking, this time. Steve takes the glass and sips, then hands it back. His throat works as he swallows, but his jaw is set firmly, like the stubborn bastard he is. Bucky knows he must be feeling sore, but he doesn't give in to the urge to shake out his arms. He bends over again on Bucky's command.

There are dried flecks of blood on Steve's ass, even though the skin is now whole and unbroken underneath. Bucky wipes it clean before continuing. The next set of welts go down over the faint shadows of the previous set, and by now the rhythm is familiar, the swish of the cane and the thwack as it hits Steve's ass, Steve's yelp of pain, lift the cane and start again. There's no contact other than through the cane, but Bucky can feel each impact traveling through the material to his hand, the quick jerk of each stroke against his palm. He imagines the cane as an extension of himself.

At least Bucky doesn't tire. This is going to take a long time. Long enough, hopefully, for Steve to think about all the stuff he feels guilty for and let it flow out with the pain. Bucky knows he's not going to break Steve completely, he doesn't intend to, but he needs to give him enough for him to get it out of his system. So, Steve needs to hurt, and keep hurting, until it's all he can think about, until his world is nothing but pain and endurance. Maybe that'll push the other stuff out.

Bucky hasn't exactly been going easy on Steve, but once they establish a rhythm he starts to ramp things up, strike harder with each blow, make it harder for Steve to bear. He draws each set out longer, not pausing when he breaks the skin. He lets Steve bleed more freely until blood is trickling down his thighs, Steve quivering with the pain, then wipes him clean before starting the next set. Steve stands stoically between sets, the muscles in his outstretched arms taut and trembling. Bucky holds the water glass for him when he offers it, seeing how Steve's hands shake.

They don't say anything. Steve seems to be drawing inward, his attention fully inside his head rather than on Bucky or the world around him. He doesn't react to the sounds of cars in the street, or a couple of people yelling on the corner.

Bucky's focus sharpens as he watches Steve, tracks the tension of his muscles and the distance of his gaze and the hoarseness of his voice when he cries out at the pain. When Steve stands up after the seventh set, his lower lip is bitten red and there are tears on his cheeks. Bucky offers a box of kleenex and waits while Steve wipes his eyes, blows his nose, and puts his arms out resolutely for the weights again.

The light changes as the morning progresses. Bucky feels an emptiness in his stomach. Hunger. He's become used to eating regularly. Missing a meal won't make Steve fail, but it will make it harder for him. 

Steve's tears are flowing steadily now, but silently. Each time he stands up, his face is a streaky mess. He blows his nose and sets his jaw again, taking the weights, and regains a little composure as he holds them. A part of him wants to ask how Steve's doing, whether he needs a break, wants to comfort him and soothe him and tell him how well he's doing. He pushes the urge aside. Steve's strong. He needs to get through this and past it, to the release on the other side. They're not there yet, but Bucky's watching, waiting for it.

It takes a long time, but slowly, slowly Bucky can see that Steve's starting to struggle. His skin is barely healed before he's gasping and gritting his teeth at the effort of keeping his arms up, and when Bucky takes the weights from him he hunches over and and curls his arms against his chest for a moment, hugging them to himself before he shakes them out and forces himself to bend over again.

At last Bucky starts to see what he's been waiting for. He didn't know what it would be, but he knew he would recognize it when it happened. Bucky lets out a sigh of relief as Steve drops the weights, his shoulders slumping. His hands hang by his sides and his head drops forward. He's shaking, but when Bucky puts a hand on his shoulder, his muscles aren't tense in the same way they were before. 

He's close. _Let it out_ , Bucky thinks, willing Steve to push out all the badness he's been holding. _Let it out._ He presses down on Steve's shoulder, and Steve bends and takes hold of his ankles again.

Steve's sobbing audibly through the next round of strokes, wet snotty gasps as the cane slices at his skin, tearing him open. When Bucky lets him stand, he takes two kleenex and a long drink of water. His eyes are red around the blue. He keeps his gaze forward as Bucky looks him over. His jaw's no longer clenched, and he takes long deep breaths, filling his lungs, shuddering a little at each one.

Has he had enough? Bucky takes a long moment to watch him, until his breath is coming a little easier. He offers the water glass again, and Steve sips. _Just a little more_ , Bucky thinks.

"Arms up," he says, and hands Steve the weights.

It doesn't take long before Steve's visibly in pain, his arms shaking with the effort of keeping them horizontal, sweat beading on his face. Bucky moves around in front of him, where Steve can see him, and taps a finger under Steve's forearm. "Up," he says. "Come on."

Steve gulps and grimaces as he lifts the weights a fraction higher. Bucky stays where Steve can see him, and Steve looks right at him, his teeth biting hard into his lower lip, but he doesn't say anything. Neither does Bucky, but he can tell Steve's drawing strength from the way their gazes are locked together.

When Bucky takes the weights from Steve for the last time, he lets his hand rest for a while on Steve's shoulder, feeling the way he's shaking, so close to falling apart. It's time to wrap it up. "This is the last set," he says in a low voice. "Bend over."

Steve needs this release. He's going to make it count. Bucky places each stroke as close to the next as he can, covering Steve's skin with railroad-track stripes before he adds a second layer of welts to mess up the perfect pattern. He strikes hard enough to bring up dark pools of blood under the skin, to make Steve cry freely at the pain, not even trying to hold it back any more. Bucky feels his own throat tightening at Steve's anguished sobs, pouring out of him like a flood. Finally, _finally_. 

The skin breaks and Bucky keeps going, until Steve's ass is a mess of open wounds and the cane is coated with his blood. When he can no longer find a place to strike that isn't already bleeding, he lets his arm drop. The cane hangs loosely from his fingers. 

Steve is gasping, big heaving intakes of air that come out again as sobs. "That's it," Bucky says. When Steve doesn't respond, Bucky puts down the cane and places his flesh palm flat carefully on the small of Steve's back. "We're finished," he says. "Can you stand up for me?"

Steve snuffles and lets go of his ankles, then slowly comes upright, wincing as he has to use his glutes to straighten up. 

Bucky offers him the kleenex. Before Steve's even finished blowing his nose, Bucky's holding him, his arms wrapped tight around Steve's body, pulling them close together, chest to chest. He presses his forehead against Steve's. "You did good," he says, his voice coming out gruff. "You did good."

That brings out another deluge of tears. Steve's shaking harder than before, letting Bucky take his weight, and Bucky realizes he's the only thing holding Steve up. He manages to lower Steve to his knees on the rug, kneels down with him and lets Steve lean into him. Better not to let him try to sit, not yet. He reaches for one of Steve's blankets, still piled near the sofa, and manages to pull it carefully around Steve's shoulders without getting any blood on it. 

It takes a while for Steve to calm down to sporadic sniffling. There's a wet patch all down Bucky's shirt. Bucky reaches for the water glass and Steve manages to lift his head up enough to drink a few sips. Bucky offers him the kleenex again, then takes one for himself and blows his own nose.

"How you doing?" Bucky says, scrunching the kleenex in his hand and dropping it on the floor.

Steve swallows. "Okay," he says. His voice sounding hoarse and unused. Bucky takes the glass from him and puts it down, drawing Steve back close to him again.

Steve's breathing slowly steadies, and his body has the lax heaviness of a sleeping child. "Hey, sweetheart," Bucky says, "Do you think you could get upstairs? Might be good to lie down." Steve nods. Bucky helps him to his feet, then puts Steve's arm around his shoulder and guides him up to their bedroom. 

"Let me see," Bucky says, when he's got Steve lying facedown on the bed, and uses gauze from their first aid kit to gently wipe Steve's skin clean. The lacerations are healing, still pink and angry-looking but no longer bleeding. When he's done, he tucks Steve under the covers and lies next to him. He finds himself stroking Steve's hair back from his brow, the way he remembers learning from Sarah when Steve was small and sick and needed the comfort of touch.

Steve shuts his eyes and dozes. When he wakes up an hour later, Bucky gets him to drink a protein smoothie and manages to refrain from pulling his customary face at the sight of it. The second time Steve wakes up, Bucky's sitting with a pillow propped against his back, reading his book. It's dark outside and the lights are low. Steve shifts under Bucky's hand, and Bucky closes his book and looks at him.

Steve's face is pale, eyes like holes in the snow. "How you feeling?" Bucky asks.

"Okay," Steve says, and Bucky hands him another one of those damn smoothies. He's had a pile of sandwiches, himself.

When Steve's done, he hands the container to Bucky, who puts it on the nightstand and says, "Roll over on your stomach." Steve's eyebrows shoot up. "We're not done yet." 

Steve doesn't move, just stares at Bucky. There's a flicker of apprehension in his eyes. "What –"

"Just do what I say," Bucky says, but he says it softly, and bends over to kiss Steve as punctuation. He represses a smirk. "If you can't take it you can tell me to stop."

Steve rolls onto his stomach, keeping an eye on Bucky with his head turned sideways. Bucky's mouth quirks up at the corner. He leans over, opens the drawer beside the bed and pulls out the massage oil that Steve usually uses on Bucky's shoulder. Realization dawns on Steve's face. "You don't –" he starts to say.

Bucky cuts him off. "Shut up and take it like a man, Rogers." Steve snorts, but settles down.

Bucky can only really work with one hand. He takes his time massaging Steve's back and arms, feeling his way around the tired, aching muscles with smooth strokes. Steve closes his eyes. He's too tired to make a fuss, thank God. Bucky doesn't want to explain that _he_ needs this as much as Steve does. 

The room's warm enough that Bucky can push the covers right down. He shuffles backward over Steve's thighs to give some attention to his lower back and his ass. Where the skin was a broken mess of lacerations and contusions, it's now perfectly smooth, pink and healthy. Amazing what a few hours can do, with the help of the serum. Steve flinches at first when Bucky's hands venture below his waist, but Bucky's gentle, coaxing him to relax. Bucky knows what newly-healed wounds feel like, the itchy tightness of the skin and the urge to cringe away from touch.

Steve's perfect fucking ass. Bucky's spent most of the day staring at it like it was a piece of meat, from a distance, not touching. He can touch now. Skin to skin, warm and close and real. He can't get enough of it, pink and perfect, baby-smooth. He smooths his oily hand over it and presses the pad of his thumb into the muscle, loosening it up. 

Steve moans quietly. There's a little hitch in his breath, too. Bucky bends down, presses his lips to one of the dimples just below Steve's waist and decides to stay there. Steve's breathing slow and steady. His ass is a perfect handful, fitting the palm of Bucky's hand like it was made for it. He lets his thumb trail down into the crease, and follows it with his mouth.

Steve squawks weakly and tenses his thighs. Bucky lifts his head up. "I told you we're not finished," he says. Steve sounds like he's about to say something, but Bucky just spreads his ass cheeks and dips back down to swipe the flat of his tongue across his hole. Whatever Steve was going to say is cut off with a gasp, and he drops his head back down onto the pillow. 

There's atonement, and then there's absolution. Bucky knows how this works. Steve needed to be broken, to crack open and let everything out. Now Bucky gets to put him back together, the best way he knows how. 

There's no point rushing now; they've been at it all day. Bucky settles in to rim Steve into a state of complete bliss. When Steve's completely limp with pleasure, letting out low breathy moans with every press of Bucky's tongue in his ass, Bucky rolls him over. Steve's eyes are almost closed, his eyelashes brushing shadows on his cheeks in the late afternoon light. Every part of him but one is completely boneless. 

Bucky smiles, stretching his numb lips, and starts working on Steve's cock. He takes his time there, too, lapping and nuzzling against the shaft, running his tongue around the head, before finally taking it in his mouth and sinking down on it. Steve comes with a soft sigh. Bucky swallows and rests his cheek on Steve's hip.

Steve's hand finds Bucky's head, strokes his hair. "Thank you," he says, and it's not just for the suck job.

  


* * *

**Fifteen hours later**

Steve's doing pushups on the living room floor when he feels Bucky watching him. He pauses mid-pushup and lifts up onto one hand, rolling sideways to look at Bucky standing in the doorway. He's cradling a cup of coffee in both hands, leaning on the doorframe, and watching with every indication of pleasure.

"Don't stop on my account," he says.

Steve finishes his set, knowing Bucky's staring at his ass, and stands up, brushing his hands off on his sweatpants.

"Fully recovered?" Bucky asks with a smirk.

"Guess so," Steve says, rubbing the back of his neck like he always does when he's feeling awkward. "Is there more coffee?"

Once he's got a cup, he and Bucky sit drinking it and looking at each other over the rims of their mugs.

"So," Bucky says at last. "D'you think that's gonna happen every time, if we go back to the warehouse?" 

Steve shakes his head. "God, I hope not," he says. "I'm not _that_ messed up. Am I?"

Bucky laughs. "I'm the last person to say, pal."

* * *

**Two weeks later**

Steve gets a text from Bucky while he's browsing art supplies, comparing two different packs of pastels. It's a row of emoji. Steve stares at it. Factory, octopus, flashlight, question mark.

He texts back: flashlight, and three question marks.

He waits while the little row of dots show that Bucky's typing, then laughs when the message comes through: "Shut up, there's no stun baton emoji." Then, a moment later, "Wait. JARVIS can you make a stun baton emoji?"

Steve rolls his eyes and dials the actual phone. Bucky picks up quickly.

"Everything okay?" Steve asks, mentally reviewing how Bucky's been the last few days.

"Fine. Just feeling, you know."

"Yeah, I know." He pauses a moment, thinking. Better to take his time, make sure everything's ready, that he can give Bucky what he needs without making a mess of it. "Tomorrow okay?"

"Yeah, that'd be... good."

Steve pays for his pastels and heads straight home. He's got planning to do.

* * *

**Two weeks and one day later**

Steve waits across the road from the warehouse, his hands in his pockets against the cold. It takes longer than he expects, but eventually the warehouse door opens and Bucky emerges. His expression is blank as he scans the area. He quickly notices Steve standing in the shelter of a doorway. He pauses for a moment, then stalks across the street to meet him.

"Hey, Buck," Steve says as he approaches.

Bucky nods at Steve, but doesn't say anything. His glance skitters off Steve and back to the moving cars, the few pedestrians on the street. Up to the roofline. He turns and starts walking. Steve falls in beside him.

They walk up the back streets by the canal, past the warehouse loft conversions and weird hipster bars. Steve bursts out laughing at one of them. He can remember newspaper headlines talking about the canal turning purple with all the poison dumped in it, and now they're naming bars after it.

"I _know_ ," Bucky says. 

As they cross the road, Bucky adjusts his trajectory so he's almost, but not quite, bumping shoulders with Steve. 

* * *

**Four and a half weeks later**

Bucky's pretty sure he can guess why Steve's gone back to reading newspapers, even if Steve doesn't say anything about it. The Times lands with a thump on their doormat each morning. Steve brings it in and spreads it out over the breakfast table. He reads the world news in silence, then hands the section to Bucky. 

Bucky skims the front page, then looks up at Steve. "New Zealand," he says. It's the last place he would have expected. A referendum – a swing to the right, underground groups emerging. A land rights campaigner was killed. Bucky shakes his head. He can't imagine HYDRA in New Zealand. Mostly when he thinks of New Zealand he imagines hobbits.

Steve nods. There's a tightness around his mouth. "We saw traffic on Facebook, but we didn't manage to stop all of it," he says. He looks distant, distracted.

Bucky flicks him in the temple. "You all right in there?"

"I'm fine," Steve says, and sighs.

"Pretty sure the New Zealand election results aren't your fault."

"I know. I'm not... beating myself up over it." His mouth quirks in a wry smile. "Not too much."

"Damn straight," Bucky says. That's his job.

* * *

**Seven weeks later**

"Hey, Cap!" Tony catches up with Steve on the common floor, where he's getting a snack after yet another briefing.

"Hey, Tony. Juice?" Steve pours himself a glass, and passes another across the counter to Tony. 

"So Pepper asked me the other day what I was doing with one of SI's old warehouses out in Gowanus. I didn't think I was doing anything with it, but I checked with JARVIS and he tried to change the subject, then said to ask you."

Steve pauses with his glass to his lips.

"So what are you using it for? Don't tell me it's for your kinky sex games because I won't believe it."

"All right, I won't tell you that." Is he blushing? He hopes he's not blushing. At least if he is, Tony will think it's because he's a hundred years old.

"But what is it though?" Tony keeps going. "Giant model train set? You could do that here if you wanted. I could give you a floor of the tower for your model trains."

"It's not model trains."

"Wait, you're probably running a soup kitchen or something, aren't you. Of course. Tell me I'm right. Do you want me to donate?"

Steve rolls his eyes. "I'm not running a soup kitchen, Tony."

"You surprise me. It seems like the sort of thing you'd do."

"If I tell you it's for our kinky sex games will you leave me alone?"

"Fine, don't tell me." He turns to leave, making finger guns and shooting them at Steve as he says, "Let Pepper know where to donate to, though. Seriously."

Steve puts his head in his hands. "JARVIS," he says, from behind his fingers, "Can you make me a list of soup kitchens and other homeless services in the Gowanus area?" 

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading! Please [share on Tumblr](https://archiveofourown.org/works/14949839) if that's a thing you do :)
> 
> **Plot synopsis/content notes:**
> 
> Steve and Bucky are in an established kinky relationship (both are switches). They start doing consensual HYDRA/Asset roleplay at Bucky's request to help him with his nightmares. Everything is consensual and JARVIS monitors for safety. However, it brings up a lot of guilt and related feelings in Steve, which they eventually address through an intense, cathartic punishment scene. The ending is positive: everyone is having good kink experiences, nobody's trauma is worse than it was to start with, and their relationship is as strong as or stronger than before.
> 
> Due to the headspace that Bucky is in when playing the Asset, they choose not to use safewords but instead rely on Steve's judgement and JARVIS's monitoring to ensure Bucky's safety. Bucky is also able to affirm that everything's going okay by saying "ready to comply". On one occasion, he does not say "ready to comply", and the issue is dealt with in-scene before continuing.
> 
> Bucky's past abuse by HYDRA, which includes sexual abuse, is repeatedly referenced, sometimes in offhand or callous ways (by Bucky himself), but is not actually depicted.


End file.
